.  no  s 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Hans  Heymann,  Jr. 


BY   EUGENE  FIELD 


Second  Book  of  Tales. 

Songs  and  Other  Verse. 

The  Holy  Cross  and  Other  Tales. 

The  House. 

The  Love  Affairs  of  a  Bibliomaniac. 

A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Tales. 

A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse. 

Second  Book  of  Verse. 

Echoes  from  the  Sabine  Farm. 

Each,  i  vol.,  i6mo,  $1.25. 

A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Tales. 

Cameo  Edition  with  etched  portrait.    i6mo,  $1.25. 

With  Trumpet  and  Drum. 

i6mo,  $1.00. 

Love  Songs  of  Childhood. 

i6mo,  $1.00. 


Songs  of  Childhood. 

Verses  by  EUGENE  FIELD.    Music  by  REGINALD 
DE  KOVEN,  and  others.    Small  410,  $1.00  net. 


SONGS 
SGnfc 


SONGS 


ami 


BV 


EUGENE   FIELD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1903 


Copyright  i8q(> 
BY  JULIA  SUTHERLAND  FIELD 


MANHATTAN  PRESS 

474  W.  BROADWAY 

NEW  YORK 


Contents  of  tlji$  115oob 


PAGE 

THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S  ACRE     ......  3 

THE  DREAM-SHIP     ..........  6 

To  CINNA      ............  9 

BALLAD  OF  WOMEN  I  LOVE  .......  n 

SUPPOSE    .............  13 

MYSTERIOUS  DOINGS     .....     ....  14 

WITH  Two  SPOONS  FOR  Two  SPOONS      .     .     .  16 

MARY  SMITH       ......     .          .     .     .  18 

JESSIE  ..............  24 

To  EMMA  ABBOTT  ..........  26 

THE  GREAT  JOURNALIST  IN  SPAIN  .....  28 

LOVE  SONG  —  HEINE    .........  30 

THE  STODDARDS      ..........  31 

THE  THREE  TAILORS    .........  37 

THE  JAFFA  AND  JERUSALEM  RAILWAY       ...  40 

HUGO'S  "POOL  IN  THE  FOREST  "    .....  42 

A  RHINE-LAND  DRINKING  SONG     .....  44 

DER  MANN  IM  KELLER    .......     .46 

Two  IDYLLS  FROM  BION  THE  SMYRNEAN  ...  48 

THE  WOOING  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND       ....  51 

HYMN  ..........     ....  54 

v 


86054:5 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

STAR  OF  THE  EAST 55 

TWIN  IDOLS 56 

Two  VALENTINES 58 

MOTHER  AND  SPHINX 61 

A  SPRING  POEM  FROM  BION 63 

BERANGER'S  "To  MY  OLD  COAT" 65 

BEN  APFELGARTEN 67 

A  HEINE  LOVE  SONG 71 

UHLAND'S  "CHAPEL" 72 

THE  DREAMS 73 

IN  NEW  ORLEANS 77 

MY  PLAYMATES 81 

STOVES  AND  SUNSHINE 84 

A  DRINKING  SONG 88 

THE  LIMITATIONS  OF  YOUTH 90 

THE  BOW-LEG  BOY 93 

THE  STRAW  PARLOR 96 

A  PITEOUS  PLAINT 101 

THE  DISCREET  COLLECTOR          104 

A  VALENTINE      ...          106 

THE  WIND 108 

A  PARAPHRASE in 

WITH  BRUTUS  IN  ST.  Jo 112 

THE  Two  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 119 

PAN  LIVETH 123 

DR.  SAM 126 

WlNFREDA 129 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LYMAN,  FREDERICK,  AND  JIM 132 

BE  MY  SWEETHEART 135 

THE  PETER-BIRD 137 

SISTER'S  CAKE 15° 

ABU  MIDJAN 155 

ED        157 

JENNIE 159 

CONTENTMENT 161 

"  GUESS  "       162 

NEW-YEAR'S  EVE 164 

OLD  SPANISH  SONG 166 

THE  BROKEN  RING 168 

IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT 170 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP 173 

AFTER  READING  TROLLOPE'S  HISTORY  OF  FLOR 
ENCE  184 

A  LULLABY 188 

"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD" 190 

CHRISTMAS  HYMN 192 

A  PARAPHRASE  OF  HEINE 194 

THE  CONVALESCENT  GRIPSTER 195 

THE  SLEEPING  CHILD 198 

THE  Two  COFFINS 200 

CLARE  MARKET 202 

A  DREAM  OF  SPRINGTIME 205 

UHLAND'S  WHITE  STAG 212 

How  SALTY  WIN  OUT 214 

vii 


anfc  SDtljcr  Ter^e 


THE  SINGING   IN  GOD'S  ACRE 


OUT  yonder  in  the  moonlight,  wherein 
God's  Acre  lies, 
Go  angels  walking  to  and  fro,  singing  their 

lullabies. 
Their  radiant  wings  are  folded,  and  their  eyes 

are  bended  low, 

As  they  sing  among  the  beds  whereon  the 
flowers  delight  to  grow, — 

"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  guardeth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may, 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 
3 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  flowers  within  God's  Acre  see  that  fair 

and  wondrous  sight, 
And  hear  the  angels  singing  to  the  sleepers 

through  the  night; 
And,  lo !  throughout  the  hours  of  day  those 

gentle  flowers  prolong 
The  music  of  the   angels  in  that  tender 

slumber-song, — 


"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
He  that  guardeth  His  flock  the  best 
Hath  folded  them  to  His  loving  breast ; 
So  sleep  ye  now,  and  take  your  rest, — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 


From  angel  and  from  flower  the  years  have 
learned  that  soothing  song, 

And  with  its  heavenly  music  speed  the  days 
and  nights  along; 

So  through  all  time,  whose  flight  the  Shep 
herd's  vigils  glorify, 

God's  Acre  slumbereth  in  the  grace  of  that 
sweet  lullaby, — 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

"Sleep,  oh,  sleep! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day ; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may, — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep  I" 


THE   DREAM-SHIP 


WHEN  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 
Along  the  midnight  skies  — 
As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud  — 
The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

An  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  helm, 
An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 

And  an  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  side 
With  a  rue-wreath  on  her  brow. 

The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 

The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor; 

They  fall  on  young  and  old ; 
And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty, 

And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 

6 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 
And  some  that  melt  to  tears ; 

Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love, 
And  some  of  the  old  dead  years. 

On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall, 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 

The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men, 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again. 

The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman  — 

The  pauper  be  a  king  — 
In  that  revenge  or  recompense 

The  dream-ship  dreams  do  bring. 

So  ever  downward  float  the  dreams 

That  are  for  all  and  me, 
And  there  is  never  mortal  man 

Can  solve  that  mystery. 

7 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 
Along  the  haunted  skies  — 

As  though  it  were  a  cloud  astray  — 
The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

Two  angels  with  their  silver  crowns 
Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 

And  an  angel  with  a  wreath  of  rue 
Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


TO  CINNA 


CINNA,  the  great  Venusian  told 
In  songs  that  will  not  die 
How  in  Augustan  days  of  old 

Your  love  did  glorify 
His  life  and  all  his  being  seemed 

Thrilled  by  that  rare  incense 
Till,  grudging  him  the  dreams  he  dreamed, 
The  gods  did  call  you  hence. 

Cinna,  I  've  looked  into  your  eyes, 

And  held  your  hands  in  mine, 
And  seen  your  cheeks  in  sweet  surprise 

Blush  red  as  Massic  wine; 
Now  let  the  songs  in  Cinna's  praise 

Be  chanted  once  again, 
For,  oh !  alone  I  walk  the  ways 

We  walked  together  then! 

9 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Perhaps  upon  some  star  to-night, 

So  far  away  in  space 
I  cannot  see  that  beacon  light 

Nor  feel  its  soothing  grace  — 
Perhaps  from  that  far-distant  sphere 

Her  quickened  vision  seeks 
For  this  poor  heart  of  mine  that  here 

To  its  lost  Cinna  speaks. 

Then  search  this  heart,  beloved  eyes, 

And  find  it  still  as  true 
As  when  in  all  my  boyhood  skies 

My  guiding  stars  were  you! 
Cinna,  you  know  the  mystery 

That  is  denied  to  men  — 
Mine  is  the  lot  to  feel  that  we 

Shall  elsewhere  love  again ! 


10 


BALLAD  OF  WOMEN  I  LOVE 


PRUDENCE  MEARS  hath  an  old  blue 
plate 

Hid  away  in  an  oaken  chest, 
And  a  Franklin  platter  of  ancient  date 

Beareth  Amandy  Baker's  crest ; 
What  times  soever  I  've  been  their  guest, 

Says  I  to  myself  in  an  undertone  : 
"Of  womenfolk,  it  must  be  confessed, 
These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 

Well,  again,  in  the  Nutmeg  State, 

Dorothy  Pratt  is  richly  blest 
With  a  relic  of  art  and  a  land  effete  — 

A  pitcher  of  glass  that 's  cut,  not  pressed. 
And  a  Washington  teapot  is  possessed 

Down  in  Pelham  by  Marthy  Stone  — 
Think  ye  now  that  I  say  in  jest 

"These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone ? " 
it 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Were  Hepsy  Higgins  inclined  to  mate, 

Or  Dorcas  Eastman  prone  to  invest 
In  Cupid's  bonds,  they  could  find  their  fate 

In  the  bootless  bard  of  Crockery  Quest. 
For  they  've  heaps  of  trumpery  —  so  have  the 
rest 

Of  those  spinsters  whose  ware  I  'd  like 

to  own; 
You  can  see  why  I  say  with  such  certain  zest, 

"  These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone." 

ENVOY 

Prince,  show  me  the  quickest  way  and  best 
To  gain  the  subject  of  my  moan ; 

We've  neither  spinsters  nor  relics  out  West — 
These  do  I  love,  and  these  alone. 


12 


SUPPOSE 


SUPPOSE,  my  dear,  that  you  were  I 
And  by  your  side  your  sweetheart  sate ; 
Suppose  you  noticed  by  and  by 

The  distance  'twixt  you  were  too  great; 
Now  tell  me,  dear,  what  would  you  do  ? 
I  know  —  and  so  do  you. 

And  when  (so  comfortably  placed) 
Suppose  you  only  grew  aware 

That  that  dear,  dainty  little  waist 
Of  hers  looked  very  lonely  there; 

Pray  tell  me  sooth  —  what  would  you  do  ? 
I  know,  and  so  do  you. 

When,  having  done  what  I  just  did 
With  not  a  frown  to  check  or  chill, 

Suppose  her  red  lips  seemed  to  bid 
Defiance  to  your  lordly  will; 

Oh,  tell  me,  sweet,  what  would  you  do  ? 
I  know,  and  so  do  you. 


MYSTERIOUS  DOINGS 


AS  once  I  rambled  in  the  woods 
/~\  I  chanced  to  spy  amid  the  brake 
A  huntsman  ride  his  way  beside 

A  fair  and  passing  tranquil  lake; 
Though  velvet  bucks  sped  here  and  there, 

He  let  them  scamper  through  the  green  — 
Not  one  smote  he,  but  lustily 

He  blew  his  horn  —  what  could  it  mean  ? 

As  on  I  strolled  beside  that  lake, 

A  pretty  maid  I  chanced  to  see 
Fishing  away  for  finny  prey, 

Yet  not  a  single  one  caught  she; 
All  round  her  boat  the  fishes  leapt 

And  gambolled  to  their  hearts'  content, 
Yet  never  a  thing  did  the  maid  but  sing  — 

I  wonder  what  on  earth  it  meant. 

14 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

As  later  yet  I  roamed  my  way, 

A  lovely  steed  neighed  loud  and  long, 
And  an  empty  boat  sped  all  afloat 

Where  sang  a  fishermaid  her  song; 
All  underneath  the  prudent  shade, 

Which  yonder  kindly  willows  threw, 
Together  strayed  a  youth  and  maid  — 

I  can't  explain  it  all,  can  you  ? 


WITH  TWO  SPOONS  FOR  TWO 
SPOONS 


HOW  trifling  shall  these  gifts  appear 
Among  the  splendid  many 
That  loving  friends  now  send  to  cheer 
Harvey  and  Ellen  Jenney. 

And  yet  these  baubles  symbolize 

A  certain  fond  relation 
That  well  beseems,  as  I  surmise, 

This  festive  celebration. 

Sweet  friends  of  mine,be  spoons  once  more, 
And  with  your  tender  cooing 

Renew  the  keen  delights  of  yore  — 
The  rapturous  bliss  of  wooing. 

16 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

What  though  that  silver  in  your  hair 

Tells  of  the  years  aflying  ? 
T  is  yours  to  mock  at  Time  and  Care 

With  love  that  is  undying. 

In  memory  of  this  Day,  dear  friends, 

Accept  the  modest  token 
From  one  who  with  the  bauble  sends 

A  love  that  can't  be  spoken. 


'7 


MARY  SMITH 


AVAY  down  East  where  I  was  reared 
amongst  my  Yankee  kith, 

There  used  to  live  a  pretty  girl  whose  name 
was  Mary  Smith; 

And  though  it  's  many  years  since  last  I  saw 
that  pretty  girl, 

And  though  I  feel  I  'm  sadly  worn  by  West 
ern  strife  and  whirl; 

Still,  oftentimes,  I  think  about  the  old  famil 
iar  place, 

Wh'ich,  someway,  seemed  the  brighter  for 
Miss  Mary's  pretty  face, 

And  in  my  heart  I  feel  once  more  revivified 
the  glow 

I  used  to  feel  in  those  old  times  when  I  was 
Mary's  beau. 

18 


SONGS   AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  saw  her  home  from  singing  school  —  she 
warbled  like  a  bird. 

A  sweeter  voice  than  hers  for  song  or  speech 
I  never  heard. 

She  was  soprano  in  the  choir,  and  I  a  solemn 
bass, 

And  when  we  unisoned  our  voices  filled  that 
holy  place; 

The  tenor  and  the  alto  never  had  the  slight 
est  chance, 

For  Mary's  upper  register  made  every  heart- 
string  dance; 

And,  as  for  me,  I  shall  not  brag,  and  yet  I  'd 
have  you  know 

I  sung  a  very  likely  bass  when  I  was  Mary's 
beau. 


On  Friday  nights  I  'd  drop  around  to  make 

my  weekly  call, 
And  though  I  came  to  visit  her,  I  'd  have  to 

see  'em  all. 
With  Mary's  mother  sitting  here  and  Mary's 

father  there, 
The  conversation  never  flagged  so  far  as  I  'm 

aware ; 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Sometimes  I  'd  hold  her  worsted,  sometimes 

we  'd  play  at  games, 
Sometimes  dissect  the  apples  which  we  'd 

named  each  other's  names. 
Oh  how  I  loathed  the  shrill-toned  clock  that 

told  me  when  to  go  — 
T  was  ten  o'clock  at  half-past  eight  when 

I  was  Mary's  beau. 


Now  there  was  Luther  Baker — because  he  'd 

come  of  age 

And  thought  himself  some  pumpkins  be 
cause  he  drove  the  stage  — 
He  fancied  he  could  cut  me  out;  but  Mary 

was  my  friend  — 
Elsewise  I  'm  sure  the  issue  had  had  a  tragic 

end. 
For  Luther  Baker  was  a  man  I  never  could 

abide, 
And,  when  it  came  to  Mary,  either  he  or  I 

had  died. 
I  merely  cite  this  instance  incidentally  to 

show 
That  I  was  quite  in  earnest  when  I  was 

Mary's  beau. 

20 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

How  often  now  those  sights,  those  pleasant 

sights,  recur  again : 
The  little  township  that  was  all  the  world 

I  knew  of  then  — 
The  meeting-house  upon  the  hill,  the  tavern 

just  beyond, 

Old  deacon  Packard's  general  store,  the  saw 
mill  by  the  pond, 
The  village  elms  I  vainly  sought  to  conquer 

in  my  quest 
Of  that  surpassing  trophy,  the  golden  oriole's 

nest. 
And,  last  of  all  those  visions  that  come  back 

from  long  ago, 
The  pretty  face  that  thrilled  my  soul  when  I 

was  Mary's  beau. 


Hush,  gentle  wife,  there  is  no  need  a  pang 

should  vex  your  heart  — 
T  is  many  years  since  fate  ordained  that  she 

and  I  should  part; 
To  each  a  true,  maturer  love  came  in  good 

time,  and  yet 
It  brought  not  with  its  nobler  grace  the 

power  to  forget. 

21 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  would  you  fain  begrudge  me  now  the 

sentimental  joy 
That  comes  of  recollections  of  my  sparkings 

when  a  boy  ? 
I  warrant  me  that,  were  your  heart  put  to 

the  rack,  't  would  show 
That  it  had  predilections  when  I  was  Mary's 

beau. 


And,  Mary,  should  these  lines  of  mine  seek 

out  your  biding  place, 
God  grant  they  bring  the  old  sweet  smile 

back  to  your  pretty  face  — 
God  grant  they  bring  you  thoughts  of  me, 

not  as  I  am  to-day, 
With  faltering  step  and  brimming  eyes  and 

aspect  grimly  gray ; 
But  thoughts  that  picture  me  as  fair  and  full 

of  life  and  glee 
As  we  were  in  the  olden  times  —  as  you 

shall  always  be. 
Think  of  me  ever,  Mary,  as  the  boy  you  used 

to  know 
When  time  was  fleet,  and  life  was  sweet, 

and  I  was  Mary's  beau. 

22 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Dear  hills  of  old  New  England,  look  down 

with  tender  eyes 
Upon  one  little  lonely  grave  that  in  your 

bosom  lies; 
For  in  that  cradle  sleeps  a  child  who  was  so 

fair  to  see 
God  yearned  to  have  unto  Himself  the  joy 

she  brought  to  me; 
And  bid  your  winds  sing  soft  and  low  the 

song  of  other  days, 
When,  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart,  we 

went  our  pleasant  ways  — 
Ah  me!  but  could  I  sing  again  that  song  of 

long  ago, 
Instead  of  this  poor  idle  song  of  being  Mary's 

beau. 


JESSIE 


WHEN  I  remark  her  golden  hair 
Swoon  on  her  glorious  shoulders, 
I  marvel  not  that  sight  so  rare 
Doth  ravish  all  beholders; 
For  summon  hence  all  pretty  girls 

Renowned  for  beauteous  tresses, 
And  you  shall  find  among  their  curls 
There  's  none  so  fair  as  Jessie's. 

And  Jessie's  eyes  are,  oh,  so  blue 

And  full  of  sweet  revealings  — 
They  seem  to  look  you  through  and  through 

And  read  your  inmost  feelings; 
Nor  black  emits  such  ardent  fires, 

Nor  brown  such  truth  expresses  — 
Admit  it,  all  ye  gallant  squires  — 

There  are  no  eyes  like  Jessie's. 
24 


SONGS  AND  OTHER   VERSE 

Her  voice  (like  liquid  beams  that  roll 

From  moonland  to  the  river) 
Steals  subtly  to  the  raptured  soul, 

Therein  to  lie  and  quiver; 
Or  falls  upon  the  grateful  ear 

With  chaste  and  warm  caresses  — 
Ah,  all  concede  the  truth  (who  hear) : 

There  's  no  such  voice  as  Jessie's. 

Of  other  charms  she  hath  such  store 

All  rivalry  excelling, 
Though  I  used  adjectives  galore, 

They  'd  fail  me  in  the  telling; 
But  now  discretion  stays  my  hand  — 

Adieu,  eyes,  voice,  and  tresses. 
Of  all  the  husbands  in  the  land 

There  's  none  so  fierce  as  Jessie's. 


TO  EMMA  ABBOTT 


'-pHERE  —  let  thy  hands  be  folded 

I     Awhile  in  sleep's  repose; 
The  patient  hands  that  wearied  not, 
But  earnestly  and  nobly  wrought 

In  charity  and  faith; 
And  let  thy  dear  eyes  close  — 
The  eyes  that  looked  alway  to  God, 
Nor  quailed  beneath  the  chastening  rod 

Of  sorrow ; 

Fold  thou  thy  hands  and  eyes 
For  just  a  little  while, 
And  with  a  smile 
Dream  of  the  morrow. 

And,  O  white  voiceless  flower, 

The  dream  which  thou  shalt  dream 
Should  be  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  things, 
For  yonder  like  a  seraph  sings 
The  sweetness  of  a  life 
With  faith  alway  its  theme; 
•6 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

While  speedeth  from  those  realms  above 
The  messenger  of  that  dear  love 

That  healeth  sorrow. 
So  sleep  a  little  while, 

For  thou  shalt  wake  and  sing 
Before  thy  King 
When  cometh  the  morrow. 


THE  GREAT  JOURNALIST  IN  SPAIN 


GOOD  editor  Dana  —  God  bless  him,  we 
say  — 

Will  soon  be  afloat  on  the  main, 
Will  be  steaming  away 
Through  the  mist  and  the  spray 
To  the  sensuous  climate  of  Spain. 

Strange  sights  shall  he  see  in  that  beautiful 

land 
Which  is  famed  for  its  soap  and  its  Moor, 

For,  as  we  understand, 

The  scenery  is  grand 
Though  the  system  of  railways  is  poor. 

For  moonlight  of  silver  and  sunlight  of  gold 
Glint  the  orchards  of  lemons  and  mangoes, 
And  the  ladies,  we  're  told, 
Are  a  joy  to  behold 

As  they  twine  in  their  lissome  fandangoes. 
28 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

What  though  our  friend  Dana  shall  twang  a 

guitar 
And  murmur  a  passionate  strain; 

Oh,  fairer  by  far 

Than  those  ravishments  are 
The  castles  abounding  in  Spain. 

These  castles  are  built  as  the  builder  may 

list  — 
They  are  sometimes  of  marble  or  stone, 

But  they  mostly  consist 

Of  east  wind  and  mist 
With  an  ivy  of  froth  overgrown. 

A  beautiful  castle  our  Dana  shall  raise 
On  a  futile  foundation  of  hope, 

And  its  glories  shall  blaze 

In  the  somnolent  haze 
Of  the  mythical  lake  del  y  Soap. 

The  fragrance  of  sunflowers  shall  swoon  on 

the  air 

And  the  visions  of  Dreamland  obtain, 
And  the  song  of  "  World's  Fair" 
Shall  be  heard  everywhere 
Through  that  beautiful  castle  in  Spain. 
29 


LOVE  SONG  — HEINE 


MANY  a  beauteous  flower  doth  spring 
From  the  tears  that  flood  my  eyes, 
And  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
In  the  burthen  of  my  sighs. 

If,  O  child,  thou  lovest  me, 
Take  these  flowerets  fair  and  frail, 

And  my  soul  shall  waft  to  thee 
Love  songs  of  the  nightingale. 


THE  STODDARDS 


WHEN  I  am  in  New  York,  I  like  to  drop 
around  at  night, 

To  visit  with  my  honest,  genial  friends,  the 
Stoddards  hight; 

Their  home  in  Fifteenth  street  is  all  so  snug, 
and  furnished  so, 

That,  when  I  once  get  planted  there,  I  don't 
know  when  to  go  ; 

A  cosy  cheerful  refuge  for  the  weary  home 
sick  guest, 

Combining  Yankee  comforts  with  the  free 
dom  of  the  west. 

The  first  thing  you  discover,  as  you  maunder 

through  the  hall, 
Is  a  curious  little  clock  upon  a  bracket  on  the 

wall; 

31 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

T  was  made  by  Stoddard's  father,  and  it 's 

very,  very  old — 
The  connoisseurs  assure  me  it  is  worth  its 

weight  in  gold ; 
And  I,  who  've  bought  all  kinds  of  clocks, 

'twixt  Denver  and  the  Rhine, 
Cast  envious  eyes  upon  that  clock,  and  wish 

that  it  were  mine. 

But  in  the  parlor.  Oh,  the  gems  on  tables, 
walls,  and  floor  — 

Rare  first  editions,  etchings,  and  old  crock 
ery  galore. 

Why,  talk  about  the  Indies  and  the  wealth 
of  Orient  things  — 

They  could  n't  hold  a  candle  to  these  quaint 
and  sumptuous  things ; 

In  such  profusion,  too — Ah  me!  how  dearly 
I  recall 

How  I  have  sat  and  watched  'em  and  wished 
I  had  'em  all. 

Now,  Mr.  Stoddard's  study  is  on  the  second 

floor, 
A  wee  blind  dog  barks  at  me  as   I  enter 

through  the  door; 
32 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  Cerberus  would  fain  begrudge  what 
sights  it  cannot  see, 

The  rapture  of  that  visual  feast  it  cannot 
share  with  me; 

A  miniature  edition  this  —  this  most  absurd 
of  hounds  — 

A  genuine  unique,  I  'm  sure,  and  one  un 
known  to  Lowndes. 

Books  —  always  books  —  are  piled  around; 

some  musty,  and  all  old ; 
Tall,  solemn  folios  such  as  Lamb  declared 

he  loved  to  hold; 
Large  paper  copies  with  their  virgin  margins 

white  and  wide, 
And  presentation  volumes  with  the  author's 

comps.  inside; 
I  break  the  tenth  commandment  with  a  wild 

impassioned  cry: 
Oh,  how  came  Stoddard  by  these  things? 

Why  Stoddard,  and  not  I  ? 

From  yonder  wall  looks  Thackeray  upon  his 

poet  friend, 
And  underneath  the  genial  face  appear  the 

lines  he  penned; 

33 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  here,  gadzooks,  ben  honge  ye  prynte  of 

marvaillous  renowne 
Yt  shameth  Chaucers  gallaunt  knyghtes  in 

Canterbury  towne; 
And  still  more  books  and  pictures.     I  'm 

dazed,  bewildered,  vexed; 
Since  I  've  broke  the  tenth  commandment, 

why  not  break  the  eighth  one  next  ? 

And,  furthermore,  in  confidence  inviolate 
be  it  said 

Friend  Stoddard  owns  a  lock  of  hair  that 
grew  on  Milton's  head ; 

Now  I  have  Gladstone  axes  and  a  lot  of  curi 
ous  things, 

Such  as  pimply  Dresden  teacups  and  old 
German  wedding-rings; 

But  nothing  like  that  saintly  lock  have  I  on 
wall  or  shelf, 

And,  being  somewhat  short  of  hair,  I  should 
like  that  lock  myself. 

But  Stoddard  has  a  soothing  way,  as  though 

he  grieved  to  see 
Invidious  torments  prey  upon  a  nice  young 

chap  like  me. 

34 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

He  waves  me  to  an  easy  chair  and  hands  me 

out  a  weed 
And  pumps  me  full  of  that  advice  he  seems 

to  know  I  need; 
So  sweet  the  tap  of  his   philosophy  and 

knowledge  flows 
That  I  can't  help  wishing  that  I  knew  a  half 

what  Stoddard  knows. 

And  so  we  sit  for  hours  and  hours,  praising 

without  restraint 
The  people  who  are  thoroughbreds,  and 

roasting  the  ones  that  ain't; 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  is  the  man  we  happen 

to  admire, 
But  wretched,  oh,  how  wretched  he  that 

hath  provoked  our  ire; 
For  I  speak  emphatic  English  when  I  once 

get  fairly  r'iled, 
And  Stoddard's  wrath  's  an  Ossa  upon  a 

Pelion  piled. 

Out  yonder,  in  the  alcove,  a  lady  sits  and 

darns, 
And  interjects  remarks  that  always  serve  to 

spice  our  yarns; 

35 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

She 's  Mrs.  Stoddard;  there  's  a  dame  that 's 

truly  to  my  heart: 
A  tiny  little  woman,  but  so  quaint,  and  good, 

and  smart 
That,  if  you  asked  me  to  suggest  which  one 

I  should  prefer 
Of  all  the    Stoddard    treasures,    I    should 

promptly  mention  her. 

O  dear  old  man,  how  I  should  like  to  be  with 

you  this  night, 
Down   in   your  home  in   Fifteenth   street, 

where  all  is  snug  and  bright; 
Where  the  shaggy  little  Cerberus  dreams  in 

its  cushioned  place, 
And  the  books  and  pictures  all  around  smile 

in  their  old  friend's  face; 
Where  the  dainty  little  sweetheart,  whom 

you  still  were  proud  to  woo, 
Charms  back  the  tender  memories  so  dear 

to  her  and  you. 


THE  THREE  TAILORS 


I  SHALL  tell  you  in  rhyme  how,  once  on 
a  time, 

Three  tailors  tramped  up  to  the  inn  Ingle- 
heim, 

On  the  Rhine,  lovely  Rhine; 
They  were  broke,  but  the  worst  of  it  all, 

they  were  curst 

With  that  malady  common  to  tailors  —  a 
thirst 
For  wine,  lots  of  wine. 

"Sweet  host,"  quoth  the  three,   "we  're 

hard  up  as  can  be, 
Yet  skilled  in  the  practice  of  cunning  are  we, 

On  the  Rhine,  genial  Rhine; 
And  we  pledge  you  we  will  impart  you  that 

skill 

Right  quickly  and  fully,  providing  you  '11  fill 
Us  with  wine,  cooling  wine." 

37 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

But  that  host  shook  his  head,  and  he  warily 

said  : 
"Though  cunning  be  good,  we  take  money 

instead, 

On  the  Rhine,  thrifty  Rhine; 
If  ye  fancy  ye  may  without  pelf  have  your 

way 
You  '11  find  that  there  's  both  host  and  the 

devil  to  pay 
For  your  wine,  costly  wine." 

Then  the  first  knavish  wight  took  his  needle 

so  bright 
And  threaded  its  eye  with  a  wee  ray  of  light 

From  the  Rhine,  sunny  Rhine; 
And,  in  such  a  deft  way,  patched  a  mirror 

that  day 

That  where  it  was  mended  no  expert  could 
say — 

Done  so  fine  't  was  for  wine. 


The  second  thereat  spied  a  poor  little  gnat 

Go  toiling  along  on  his  nose  broad  and  flat 

Towards  the  Rhine,  pleasant  Rhine; 

"  Aha,  tiny  friend,  I  should  hate  to  offend, 

38 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

But  your  stockings  need  darning"  — which 
same  did  he  mend, 
All  for  wine,  soothing  wine. 

And  next  there  occurred  what  you  '11  deem 

quite  absurd  — 
His  needle  a  space  in  the  wall  thrust  the  third, 

By  the  Rhine,  wondrous  Rhine; 
And  then  all  so  spry,  he  leapt  through  the  eye 
Of  that  thin  cambric  needle — nay,  think  you 
I  'd  lie 
About  wine  —  not  for  wine. 

The  landlord  allowed  (with  a  smile)  he  was 

proud 
To  do  the  fair  thing  by  that  talented  crowd 

On  the  Rhine,  generous  Rhine. 
So  a  thimble  filled  he  as  full  as  could  be  — 
"Drink  long  and  drink  hearty,  my  jolly 
friends  three, 
Of  my  wine,  filling  wine." 


39 


THE  JAFFA  AND  JERUSALEM  RAILWAY 


A  TORTUOUS  double  iron  track;  a  sta- 

1\     tion  here,  a  station  there ; 

A  locomotive,  tender,  tanks;  a  coach  with 
stiff  reclining  chair; 

Some  postal  cars,  and  baggage,  too;  a  ves 
tibule  of  patent  make ; 

With  buffers,  duffers,  switches,  and  the 
soughing  automatic  brake  — 

This  is  the  Orient's  novel  pride,  and  Syria's 
gaudiest  modern  gem : 

The  railway  scheme  that  is  to  ply  'twixt  Jaffa 
and  Jerusalem. 

Beware,  O  sacred  Mooley  cow,  the  engine 
when  you  hear  its  bell ; 

Beware,  O  camel,  when  resounds  the  whis 
tle's  shrill,  unholy  swell; 

40 


SONGS   AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And,  native  of  that  guileless  land,  unused  to 

modern  travel's  snare, 
Beware  the  fiend  that  peddles  books  —  the 

awful  peanut-boy  beware. 
Else,  trusting  in  their  specious  arts,  you  may 

have  reason  to  condemn 
The  traffic  which  the  knavish  ply  'twixt 

Jaffa  and  Jerusalem. 

And  when,  ah,  when  the  bonds  fall  due, 
how  passing  wroth  will  wax  the  state 

From  Nebo's  mount  to  Nazareth  will  spread 
the  cry  "  Repudiate"! 

From   Hebron   to   Tiberius,   from  Jordan's 
banks  unto  the  sea, 

Will  rise  profuse  anathemas  against 
"that monopoly!" 

And  F.  M.  B.  A.  shepherd-folk,  with  Sock- 
less  Jerry  leading  them, 

Will  swamp  that  corporation   line   'twixt 
Jaffa  and  Jerusalem. 


4' 


HUGO'S  "  POOL  IN  THE  FOREST  " 


HOW  calm,  how  beauteous  and  how 
cool  — 

How  like  a  sister  to  the  skies, 
Appears  the  broad,  transparent  pool 

That  in  this  quiet  forest  lies. 
The  sunshine  ripples  on  its  face, 

And  from  the  world  around,  above, 
It  hath  caught  down  the  nameless  grace 
Of  such  reflections  as  we  love. 

But  deep  below  its  surface  crawl 

The  reptile  horrors  of  the  night  — 
The  dragons,  lizards,  serpents  —  all 

The  hideous  brood  that  hate  the  light; 
Through  poison  fern  and  slimy  weed 

And  under  ragged,  jagged  stones 
They  scuttle,  or,  in  ghoulish  greed, 

They  lap  a  dead  man's  bleaching  bones. 

42 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  as,  O  pool,  thou  dost  cajole 

With  seemings  that  beguile  us  well, 

So  doeth  many  a  human  soul 

That  teemeth  with  the  lusts  of  hell. 


A  RHINE-LAND  DRINKING  SONG 


IF  our  own  life  is  the  life  of  a  flower 
(And  that 's  what  some  sages  are  think 
ing). 

We  should  moisten  the  bud  with  a  health- 
giving  flood 

And  't  will  bloom  all  the  sweeter  — 
Yes,  life  's  the  completer 
For  drinking, 

and  drinking, 

and  drinking. 

If  it  be  that  our  life  is  a  journey 

(As  many  wise  folk  are  opining), 
We  should  sprinkle  the  way  with  the  rain 
while  we  may; 
Though  dusty  and  dreary, 
T  is  made  cool  and  cheery 
With  wining, 

and  wining, 

and  wining. 

44 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

If  this  life  that  we  live  be  a  dreaming 

(As  pessimist  people  are  thinking), 
To  induce  pleasant  dreams  there  is  nothing, 
meseems, 

Like  this  sweet  prescription, 
That  baffles  description  — 
This  drinking, 

and  drinking, 

and  drinking. 


DER  MANN  IM  KELLER 


HOW  cool  and  fair  this  cellar  where 
My  throne  a  dusky  cask  is; 
To  do  no  thing  but  just  to  sing 

And  drown  the  time  my  task  is. 
The  cooper  he  's 
Resolved  to  please, 
And,  answering  to  my  winking, 
He  fills  me  up 
Cup  after  cup 
For  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 

Begrudge  me  not 

This  cosy  spot 
In  which  I  am  reclining  — 

Why,  who  would  burst 

With  envious  thirst, 
When  he  can  live  by  wining. 
A  roseate  hue  seems  to  imbue 

The  world  on  which  I  'm  blinking; 
My  fellow-men  —  I  love  them  when 
I  'm  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 
46 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  yet  I  think,  the  more  I  drink, 

It 's  more  and  more  I  pine  for  — 
Oh,  such  as  I  (forever  dry) 

God  made  this  land  of  Rhine  for; 

And  there  is  bliss 

In  knowing  this, 
As  to  the  floor  I  'm  sinking: 

I  've  wronged  no  man 

And  never  can 
While  drinking,  drinking,  drinking. 


47 


TWO  IDYLLS  FROM   BION  THE 
SMYRNEAN 


ONCE  a  fowler,  young  and  artless, 
To  the  quiet  greenwood  came; 
Full  of  skill  was  he  and  heartless 

In  pursuit  of  feathered  game. 
And  betimes  he  chanced  to  see 
Eros  perching  in  a  tree. 

"What  strange  bird  is  that,  I  wonder?" 
Thought  the  youth,  and  spread  his  snare; 

Eros,  chuckling  at  the  blunder, 
Gayly  scampered  here  and  there. 

Do  his  best,  the  simple  clod 

Could  not  snare  the  agile  god ! 

Blubbering,  to  his  aged  master 

Went  the  fowler  in  dismay, 
And  confided  his  disaster 

With  that  curious  bird  that  day ; 
48 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

"Master,  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Of  so  ill-disposed  a  bird  ?  " 

"  Heard  of  him  ?  Aha,  most  truly!  " 
Quoth  the  master  with  a  smile; 

"And  thou  too,  shall  know  him  duly 
Thou  art  young,  but  bide  awhile, 

And  old  Eros  will  not  fly 

From  thy  presence  by  and  by! 

"  For  when  thou  art  somewhat  older 
That  same  Eros  thou  didst  see, 

More  familiar  grown  and  bolder, 
Shall  become  acquaint  with  thee; 

And  when  Eros  comes  thy  way 

Mark  my  word,  he  comes  to  stay !  " 

II 

Once  came  Venus  to  me,  bringing 
Eros  where  my  cattle  fed  — 

"Teach  this  little  boy  your  singing, 
Gentle  herdsman,"  Venus  said. 

I  was  young  —  I  did  not  know 
Whom  it  was  that  Venus  led  — 

That  was  many  years  ago! 
49 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

In  a  lusty  voice  but  mellow  — 

Callow  pedant!    I  began 
To  instruct  the  little  fellow 

In  the  mysteries  known  to  man ; 
Sung  the  noble  cithern's  praise, 

And  the  flute  of  dear  old  Pan, 
And  the  lyre  that  Hermes  plays. 

But  he  paid  no  heed  unto  me  — 
Nay,  that  graceless  little  boy 

Coolly  plotted  to  undo  me  — 
With  his  songs  of  tender  joy ; 

And  my  pedantry  o'erthrown, 
Eager  was  I  to  employ 

His  sweet  ritual  for  mine  own ! 

Ah,  these  years  of  ours  are  fleeting! 

Yet  I  have  not  vainly  wrought, 
Since  to-day  I  am  repeating 

What  dear  lessons  Eros  taught; 
Love,  and  always  love,  and  then  — 

Counting  all  things  else  for  naught- 
Love  and  always  love  again ! 


THE   WOOING  OF  THE   SOUTHLAND 
(ALASKAN  BALLAD) 

THE  Northland  reared  his  hoary  head 
And    spied    the   Southland     leagues 

away  — 

"  Fairest  of  all  fair  brides,"  he  said, 
"  Be  thou  my  bride,  I  pray!  " 

Whereat  the  Southland  laughed  and  cried : 
"I  '11  bide  beside  my  native  sea, 

And  I  shall  never  be  thy  bride 
Till  thou  com'st  wooing  me! " 

The  Northland's  heart  was  a  heart  of  ice, 
A  diamond  glacier,  mountain  high  — 

Oh,  love  is  sweet  at  any  price, 
As  well  know  you  and  I ! 

5< 


SONGS   AND   OTHER   VERSE 

So  gayly  the  Northland  took  his  heart 
And  cast  it  in  the  wailing  sea  — 

"Go,  thou,  with  all  thy  cunning  art, 
And  woo  my  bride  for  me!  " 

For  many  a  night  and  for  many  a  day, 
And  over  the  leagues  that  rolled  between, 

The  true-heart  messenger  sped  away 
To  woo  the  Southland  queen. 

But  the  sea  wailed  loud,  and  the  sea  wailed 
long, 

While  ever  the  Northland  cried  in  glee : 
"Oh,  thou  shalt  sing  us  our  bridal  song, 

When  comes  my  bride,  O  sea! " 

At  the  foot  of  the  Southland's  golden  throne 
The  heart  of  the  Northland  ever  throbs  — 

For  that  true-heart  speaks  in  the  waves  that 

moan, 
The  songs  that  it  sings  are  sobs. 

Ever  the  Southland  spurns  the  cries 
Of  the  messenger  pleading  the  Northland's 

part; 

Thesummer  shinesin  the  Southland's  eyes — 
The  winter  bides  in  her  heart! 
52 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  ever  unto  that  far-off  place 

Which  love  doth  render  a  hallowed  spot, 
The  Northland  turneth  his  honest  face 

And  wonders  she  cometh  not. 

The  sea  wails  loud,  and  the  sea  wails  long, 
As  the  ages  of  waiting  drift  slowly  by 

But  the  sea  shall  sing  no  bridal  song  — 
As  well  know  you  and  I! 


HYMN 
(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MARTIN  LUTHER) 

O  HEART  of  mine !  lift  up  thine  eyes 
And  see  who  in  yon  manger  lies ! 
Of  perfect  form,  efface  divine — 
It  is  the  Christ-child,  heart  of  mine ! 

O  dearest,  holiest  Christ-child,  spread 
Within  this  heart  of  mine  thy  bed; 
Then  shall  my  breast  forever  be 
A  chamber  consecrate  to  thee! 

Beat  high  to-day,  O  heart  of  mine, 
And  tell,  O  lips,  what  joys  are  thine; 
For  with  your  help  shall  I  prolong 
Old  Bethlehem's  sweetest  cradle-song. 

Glory  to  God,  whom  this  dear  Child 
Hath  by  His  coming  reconciled, 
And  whose  redeeming  love  again 
Brings  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men! 
54 


STAR  OF  THE  EAST 


STAR  of  the  East,  that  long  ago 
Brought  wise  men  on  their  way 
Where,  angels  singing  to  and  fro, 

The  Child  of  Bethlehem  lay  — 
Above  that  Syrian  hill  afar 
Thou  shinest  out  to-night,  O  Star ! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  night  were  drear 

But  for  the  tender  grace 
That  with  thy  glory  comes  to  cheer 

Earth's  loneliest,  darkest  place; 
For  by  that  charity  we  see 
Where  there  is  hope  for  all  and  me. 

Star  of  the  East!  show  us  the  way 

In  wisdom  undefiled 
To  seek  that  manger  out  and  lay 

Our  gifts  before  the  child  — 
To  bring  our  hearts  and  offer  them 
Unto  our  King  in  Bethlehem ! 

55 


TWIN  IDOLS 


'IpHERE  are  two  phrases,  you  must  know, 

1     So  potent  (yet  so  small) 
That  wheresoe'er  a  man  may  go 

He  needs  none  else  at  all; 
No  servile  guide  to  lead  the  way 

Nor  lackey  at  his  heel, 
If  he  be  learned  enough  to  say 

"  Comme  bien  "  and  "  Wie  viel." 

The  sleek,  pomaded  Parleyvoo 

Will  air  his  sweetest  airs 
And  quote  the  highest  rates  when  you 

"  Comme  bien  "  for  his  wares; 
And,  though  the  German  stolid  be, 

His  so-called  heart  of  steel 
Becomes  as  soft  as  wax  when  he 

Detects  the  words  "Wie  viel." 
56 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Go,  search  the  boulevards  and  rues 

From  Havre  to  Marseilles — 
You  '11  find  all  eloquence  you  use 

Except  "  Comme  bien  "  fails; 
Or  in  the  country  auf  der  Rhine 

Essay  a  business  deal 
And  all  your  art  is  good  fuhr  nein 

Beyond  the  point —  "  Wie  viel." 

It  matters  not  what  game  or  prey 

Attracts  your  greedy  eyes  — 
You  must  pursue  the  good  old  way 

If  you  would  win  the  prize; 
It  is  to  get  a  titled  mate 

All  run  down  at  the  heel, 
If  you  inquire  of  stock  effete, 

"  Comme  bien  "  or  "Wie  viel." 

So  he  is  wise  who  envieth  not 

A  wealth  of  foreign  speech, 
Since  with  two  phrases  may  be  got 

Whatever  's  in  his  reach ; 
For  Europe  is  a  soulless  shrine 

In  which  all  classes  kneel 
Before  twin  idols,  deemed  divine  — 

" Comme  bien "  and  "Wie  viel." 

57 


TWO  VALENTINES 

I. — TO  MISTRESS  BARBARA 

THERE  were  three  cavaliers,  all  hand 
some  and  true, 

On  Valentine's  day  came  a  maiden  to  woo, 
And  quoth  to  your  mother:  "Good-mor 
row,  my  dear, 

We  came  with  some  songs  for  your  daugh 
ter  to  hear! " 

Your  mother  replied:  "I  '11  be  pleased  to 

convey 
To  my  daughter  what  things  you  may  sing 

or  may  say ! " 

Then  the  first  cavalier  sung :  ' '  My  pretty  red 
rose, 

I  '11  love  you  and  court  you  some  day,  I  sup 
pose!" 

58 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  the  next  cavalier  sung,  with  make-be 
lieve  tears : 

"I  've  loved  you!  I've  loved  you  these 
many  long  years!" 

But  the  third   cavalier   (with  the  brown, 

bushy  head 
And  the  pretty  blue  jacket  and  necktie  of 

red) 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  resolute  air, 
And  he  warbled:  "O  maiden,  surpassingly 

fair! 
I  've  loved  you  long  years,  and  I  love  you 

to-day, 
And,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  '11  love  you  for  aye !  " 

I  (the  third  cavalier)  sang  this  ditty  to  you, 
In  my  necktie  of  red  and  my  jacket  of  blue; 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  prefer  the  song  that  was 

mine 
And  smile  your  approval  on  your  valentine. 

II. — TO  A   BABY   BOY 

Who  I  am  I  shall  not  say, 
But  I  send  you  this  bouquet 

59 


SONGS  AND  OTHER   VERSE 

With  this  query,  baby  mine: 
"  Will  you  be  my  valentine  ?" 

See  these  roses  blushing  blue, 
Very  like  your  eyes  of  hue; 
While  these  violets  are  the  red 
Of  your  cheeks.     It  can  be  said 
Ne'er  before  was  babe  like  you. 

And  I  think  it  is  quite  true 
No  one  e'er  before  to-day 
Sent  so  wondrous  a  bouquet 
As  these  posies  aforesaid  — 
Roses  blue  and  violets  red! 

Sweet,  repay  me  sweets  for  sweets- 
T  is  your  lover  who  entreats ! 
Smile  upon  me,  baby  mine  — 
Be  my  little  valentine! 


60 


MOTHER  AND  SPHINX 
(EGYPTIAN  FOLK-SONG) 

GRIM  is  the  face  that  looks  into  the  night 
Over  the  stretch  of  sands ; 
A  sullen  rock  in  a  sea  of  white  — 
A  ghostly  shadow  in  ghostly  light, 

Peering  and  moaning  it  stands. 
"  Ob,  is  it  the  king  that  rides  this  way  — 

Ob,  is  it  the  king  tbat  rides  so  free  ? 
/  have  looked  for  the  king  this  many  a  day, 
But  the  years  that  mock  me  will  not  say 

Why  tarrieth  he!  " 

T  is  not  your  king  that  shall  ride  to-night, 

But  a  child  that  is  fast  asleep ; 
And  the  horse  he  shall  ride  is  the  Dream- 
horse  white  — 
Aha,  he  shall  speed  through  the  ghostly 

light 
Where  the  ghostly  shadows  creep! 

6. 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

"  My  eyes  are  duU  and  my  face  is  sere. 

Yet  unto  the  word  be  gave  I  cling, 
For  he  was  a  Pharaoh  tbat  set  me  bere  — 
And,  lo  !  I  bave  waited  this  many  a  year 
For  him  —  my  king  !  ' ' 

Oh,  past  thy  face  my  darling  shall  ride 

Swift  as  the  burning  winds  that  bear 
The  sand  clouds  over  the  desert  wide  — 
Swift  to  the  verdure  and  palms  beside 

The  wells  off  there! 
"  And  is  it  the  mighty  king  I  shall  see 

Come  riding  into  the  night? 
Oh,  is  it  the  king  come  back  to  me  — 
Proudly  and  fiercely  rideth  he, 

With  centuries  dight!  " 

I  know  no  king  but  my  dark-eyed  dear 

That  shall  ride  the  Dream-Horse  white; 
But  see!  he  wakes  at  my  bosom  here, 
While  the  Dream-Horse  frettingly  lingers  near 

To  speed  with  my  babe  to-night! 
And  out  of  the  desert  darkness  peers 

A  ghostly,  ghastly,  shadowy  thing 
Like  a  spirit  come  out  of  the  mouldering  years. 
And  ever  that  waiting  spectre  hears 

The  coming  king  ! 

62 


A  SPRING  POEM  FROM  BION 


ONE  asketh : 
"  Tell  me,  Myrson,  tell  me  true: 
What 's  the  season  pleaseth  you  ? 
Is  it  summer  suits  you  best, 
When  from  harvest  toil  we  rest  ? 
Is  it  autumn  with  its  glory 
Of  all  surfeited  desires  ? 
Is  it  winter,  when  with  story 

And  with  song  we  hug  our  fires  ? 
Or  is  spring  most  fair  to  you  — 
Come,  good  Myrson,  tell  me  true ! " 

Another  answereth : 
"  What  the  gods  in  wisdom  send 
We  should  question  not,  my  friend ? 
Yet,  since  you  entreat  of  me, 
I  will  answer  reverently : 
63 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Me  the  summertime  displeases, 
For  its  sun  is  scorching  hot ; 
Autumn  brings  such  dire  diseases 

That  perforce  I  like  it  not; 
As  for  biting  winter,  oh ! 
How  I  hate  its  ice  and  snow! 

"  But,  thrice  welcome,  kindly  spring, 
With  the  myriad  gifts  you  bring ! 
Not  too  hot  nor  yet  too  cold, 
Graciously  your  charms  unfold  — 
Oh,  your  days  are  like  the  dreaming 
Of  those  nights  which  love  beseems, 
And  your  nights  have  all  the  seeming 

Of  those  days  of  golden  dreams ! 
Heaven  smiles  down  on  earth,  and  then 
Earth  smiles  up  to  heaven  again ! " 


64 


BERANGER'S  "TO  MY  OLD  COAT/ 


STILL  serve  me  in  my  age,  I  pray, 
As  in  my  youth,  O  faithful  one; 
For  years  I  've  brushed  thee  every  day  — 

Could  Socrates  have  better  done  ? 
What  though  the  fates  would  wreak  on  thee 

The  fulness  of  their  evil  art  ? 
Use  thou  philosophy,  like  me  — 
And  we,  old  friend,  shall  never  part! 

I  think  —  I  often  think  of  it  — 

The  day  we  twain  first  faced  the  crowd ; 
My  roistering  friends  impeached  your  fit, 

But  you  and  I  were  very  proud! 
Those  jovial  friends  no  more  make  free 

With  us  (no  longer  new  and  smart), 
But  rather  welcome  you  and  me 

As  loving  friends  that  should  not  part. 

65 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  patch  ?    Oh,  yes  —  one  happy  night  - 

"  Lisette,"  says  I,  "it 's  time  to  go" — 
She  clutched  this  sleeve  to  stay  my  flight, 

Shrieking:  "What!  leave  so  early  ?  No! ' 
To  mend  the  ghastly  rent  she  'd  made, 

Three  days  she  toiled,  dear  patient  heart! 
And  I  —  right  willingly  I  staid  — 

Lisette  decreed  we  should  not  part! 

No  incense  ever  yet  profaned 

This  honest,  shiny  warp  of  thine, 
Nor  hath  a  courtier's  eye  disdained 

Thy  faded  hue  and  quaint  design ; 
Let  servile  flattery  be  the  price 

Of  ribbons  in  the  royal  mart  — 
A  roadside  posie  shall  suffice 

For  us  two  friends  that  must  not  part! 

Fear  not  the  recklessness  of  yore 

Shall  re-occur  to  vex  thee  now; 
Alas,  I  am  a  youth  no  more  — 

I  'm  old  and  sere,  and  so  art  thou! 
So  bide  with  me  unto  the  last 

And  with  thy  warmth  caress  this  heart 
That  pleads,  by  memories  of  the  Past, 

That  two  such  friends  should  never  part! 
66 


BEN  APFELGARTEN 


THERE  was  a  certain  gentleman,  Ben 
Apfelgarten  called, 
Who  lived  way  off  in  Germany  a  many 

years  ago, 
And  he  was  very  fortunate  in  being  very 

bald 

And  so  was  very  happy  he  was  so. 
He  warbled  all  the  day 
Such  songs  as  only  they 
Who  are  very,  very  circumspect  and  very 
happy  may ; 

The  people  wondered  why, 
As  the  years  went  gliding  by, 
They  never  heard  him  once  complain  or  even 
heave  a  sigh ! 

The  women  of  the  province  fell  in  love  with 

genial  Ben, 

Till  (may  be  you  can  fancy  it)  the  dickens 
was  to  pay 

67 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Among  the  callow  students  and  the  sober- 
minded  men  — 

With  the  women-folk  a-cuttin'  up  that 
way! 

Why,  they  gave  him  turbans  red 
To  adorn  his  hairless  head, 
And  knitted  jaunty  nightcaps  to  protect  him 
when  abed! 

In  vain  the  rest  demurred  — 
Not  a  single  chiding  word 
Those  ladies  deigned  to  tolerate  —  remon 
strance  was  absurd! 


Things  finally  got  into  such  a  very  dreadful 

way 
That  the  others  (oh,  how  artful)  formed 

the  politic  design 
To  send  him  to  the  reichstag;  so,  one  dull 

November  day, 

They  elected  him   a   member  from   the 
Rhine! 

Then  the  other  members  said : 
' '  Gott  im  Himmel !  what  a  head !  " 
But  they  marvelled  when  his  speeches  they 
listened  to  or  read ; 

68 


SONGS   AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  presently  they  cried: 
"There  must  be  heaps  inside 
Of  the  smooth  and  shiny  cranium  his  con 
stituents  deride!" 

Well,  when  at  last  he  up  'nd  died  —  long 

past  his  ninetieth  year  — 
The  strangest  and  the  most  lugubrious 

funeral  he  had, 
For  women  came  in  multitudes  to  weep 

upon  his  bier  — 

The  men  all  wond'ring  why  on  earth  the 
women  had  gone  mad! 

And  this  wonderment  increased 
Till  the  sympathetic  priest 
Inquired  of  those  same  ladies:  "Why  this 
fuss  about  deceased  ?  " 

Whereupon  were  they  appalled, 
For,  as  one,  those  women  squalled : 
"We  doted  on  deceased  for  being  bald  — 
bald  — bald!" 

He  was  bald  because  his  genius  burnt  that 

shock  of  hair  away 

Which,  elsewise,  clogs  one's  keenness  and 
activity  of  mind ; 

69 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  (barring  present  company,  of  course) 

I  'm  free  to  say 

That,  after  all,  it 's  intellect  that  captures 
womankind. 

At  any  rate,  since  then 
(With  a  precedent  in  Ben), 
The  women-folk  have  been  in  love  with  us 
bald-headed  men! 


7° 


A  HEINE  LOVE  SONG 


THE  image  of  the  moon  at  night 
\11  trembling  in  the  ocean  lies, 
But  she,  with  calm  and  steadfast  light, 
Moves  proudly  through  the  radiant  skies. 

How  like  the  tranquil  moon  thou  art  — 
Thou  fairest  flower  of  womankind! 

And,  look,  within  my  fluttering  heart 
Thy  image  trembling  is  enshrined! 


7' 


UHLAND'S  "CHAPEL" 


YONDER  stands  the  hillside  chapel 
Mid  the  evergreens  and  rocks, 
All  day  long  it  hears  the  song 
Of  the  shepherd  to  his  flocks. 

Then  the  chapel  bell  goes  tolling  — 
Knelling  for  a  soul  that 's  sped; 

Silent  and  sad  the  shepherd  lad 
Hears  the  requiem  for  the  dead. 

Shepherd,  singers  of  the  valley, 
Voiceless  now,  speed  on  before; 

Soon  shall  knell  that  chapel  bell 
For  the  songs  you  '11  sing  no  more. 


THE   DREAMS 


TWO  dreams  came  down  to  earth  one 
night 

From  the  realm  of  mist  and  dew ; 

One  was  a  dream  of  the  old,  old  days, 

And  one  was  a  dream  of  the  new. 

One  was  a  dream  of  a  shady  lane 

That  led  to  the  pickerel  pond 
Where  the  willows  and  rushes  bowed  them 
selves 

To  the  brown  old  hills  beyond. 

And  the  people  that  peopled  the  old-time 

dream 

Were  pleasant  and  fair  to  see, 
And  the  dreamer  he  walked  with  them  again 
As  often  of  old  walked  he. 
73 


SONGS  AND  OTHER   VERSE 

Oh,  cool  was  the  wind  in  the  shady  lane 

That  tangled  his  curly  hair  1 
Oh,  sweet  was  the  music  the  robins  made 

To  the  springtime  everywhere! 

Was  it  the  dew  the  dream  had  brought 

From  yonder  midnight  skies, 
Or  was  it  tears  from  the  dear,  dead  years 

That  lay  in  the  dreamer's  eyes  ? 

The  other  dream  ran  fast  and  free, 

As  the  moon  benignly  shed 
Her  golden  grace  on  the  smiling  face 

In  the  little  trundle-bed. 

For  't  was  a  dream  of  times  to  come  — 
Of  the  glorious  noon  of  day  — 

Of  the  summer  that  follows  the  careless 

spring 
When  the  child  is  done  with  play. 

And  't  was  a  dream  of  the  busy  world 
Where  valorous  deeds  are  done; 

Of  battles  fought  in  the  cause  of  right, 
And  of  victories  nobly  won. 
74 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

It  breathed  no  breath  of  the  dear  old  home 

And  the  quiet  joys  of  youth; 
It  gave  no  glimpse  of  the  good  old  friends 

Or  the  old-time  faith  and  truth. 

But 't  was  a  dream  of  youthful  hopes, 

And  fast  and  free  it  ran, 
And  it  told  to  a  little  sleeping  child 

Of  a  boy  become  a  man ! 

These  were  the  dreams  that  came  one  night 

To  earth  from  yonder  sky ; 
These    were    the    dreams    two    dreamers 
dreamed  — 

My  little  boy  and  I. 

And  in  our  hearts  my  boy  and  I 

Were  glad  that  it  was  so ; 
He  loved  to  dream  of  days  to  come, 

And  /  of  long  ago. 

So  from  our  dreams  my  boy  and  I 

Unwillingly  awoke, 
But  neither  of  his  precious  dream 

Unto  the  other  spoke. 

75 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Yet  of  the  love  we  bore  those  dreams 
Gave  each  his  tender  sign ; 

For  there  was  triumph  in  his  eyes  — 
And  there  were  tears  in  mine  ! 


IN  NEW  ORLEANS 


TWAS  in  the  Crescent  City  not  long  ago 
befell 
The  tear-compelling  incident  I  now  propose 

to  tell; 
So   come,  my   sweet  collector  friends,  and 

listen  while  I  sing 
Unto  your   delectation   this   brief,  pathetic 

thing  — 
No  lyric  pitched  in  vaunting  key,  but  just  a 

requiem 
Of  blowing  twenty  dollars  in  by  nine  o'clock 

a.  m. 

Let  critic  folk  the  poet's  use  of  vulgar  slang 

upbraid, 
But,  when  I  'm  speaking  by  the  card,  I  call 

a  spade  a  spade; 

77 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  I,  who  have  been  touched  of  that  same 
mania,  myself, 

Am  well  aware  that,  when  it  comes  to  part 
ing  with  his  pelf, 

The  curio  collector  is  so  blindly  lost  in  sin 

That  he  does  n't  spend  his  money  —  he  sim 
ply  blows  it  in ! 

In  Royal  street  (near  Conti)  there  's  a  lovely 

curio-shop, 
And  there,  one  balmy,  fateful  morn,  it  was 

my  chance  to  stop ; 
To  stop  was  hesitation  —  in  a  moment  I  was 

lost— 
That  kind  of  hesitation  does  not  hesitate  at 

cost! 
I  spied  a  pewter  tankard  there,  and,  my!  it 

was  a  gem  — 
And  the  clock  in  old  St.  Louis  told  the  hour 

of  eight  a.  m. ! 

Three  quaint  Bohemian  bottles,  too,  of  yel 
low  and  of  green, 

Cut  in  archaic  fashion  that  I  ne'er  before  had 
seen; 

78 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

A  lovely,  hideous  platter  wreathed  about 

with  pink  and  rose, 
With  its  curious  depression  into  which  the 

gravy  flows ; 
Two  dainty  silver  salts — oh,  there  was  no 

resisting  them  — 
And  I  'd  blown  in  twenty  dollars  by  nine 

o'clock  a.  m. 

With  twenty  dollars,  one  who  is  a  prudent 
man,  indeed, 

Can  buy  the  wealth  of  useful  things  his  wife 
and  children  need; 

Shoes,  stockings,  knickerbockers,  gloves, 
bibs,  nursing-bottles,  caps, 

A  gown  —  the  gown  for  which  his  spouse 
too  long  has  pined,  perhaps ! 

These  and  ten  thousand  other  spectres  har 
row  and  condemn 

The  man  who  's  blown  in  twenty  by  nine 
o  'clock  a.  m. 

Oh,  mean  advantage  conscience  takes  (and 

one  that  I  abhor!) 
In  asking  one  this  question :  ' '  What  did  you 

buy  it  for  ?  " 

79 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Why  does  n't  conscience  ply  its  blessed 
trade  before  the  act, 

Before  one's  cussedness  becomes  a  bald,  ac 
complished  fact  — 

Before  one's  fallen  victim  to  the  Tempter's 
stratagem 

And  blown  in  twenty  dollars  by  nine  o'clock 
a.  m.? 

Ah  me!  now  that  the  deed  is  done,  how 

penitent  I  am ! 
I  was  a  roaring  lion  —  behold  a  bleating 

lamb! 
I  've  packed   and   shipped  those  precious 

things  to  that  more  precious  wife 
Who    shares   with    our   sweet  babes   the 

strange  vicissitudes  of  life, 
While  he  who,  in  his  folly,  gave  up  his  store 

of  wealth 
Is  far  away,  and  means  to  keep  his  distance 

—  for  his  health ! 


80 


MY  PLAYMATES 


THE  wind  comes  whispering  to  me  of 
the  country  green  and  cooi — 

Of  redwing  blackbirds  chattering  beside  a 
reedy  pool; 

It  brings  me  soothing  fancies  of  the  home 
stead  on  the  hill, 

And  I  hear  the  thrush's  evening  song  and 
the  robin's  morning  trill; 

So  I  fall  to  thinking  tenderly  of  those  I  used 
to  know 

Where  the  sassafras  and  snakeroot  and 
checkerberries  grow. 

What  has  become  of  Ezra  Marsh,  who  lived 

on  Baker's  hill  ? 
And  what  's  become  of  Noble  Pratt,  whose 

father  kept  the  mill  ? 
81 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  what  's  become  of  Lizzie  Crum  and 
Anastasia  Snell, 

And  of  Roxie  Root,  who  'tended  school  in 
Boston  for  a  spell  ? 

They  were  the  boys  and  they  the  girls  who 
shared  my  youthful  play  — 

They  do  not  answer  to  my  call !  My  play 
mates  —  where  are  they  ? 

What  has  become  of  Levi   and  his   little 

brother  Joe, 
Who  lived  next  door  to  where  we  lived 

some  forty  years  ago  ? 
I  'd  like  to  see  the  Newton  boys  and  Quincy 

Adams  Brown, 
And  Hepsy  Hall  and  Ella  Cowles,  who  spelled 

the  whole  school  down! 
And  Gracie  Smith,  the  Cutler  boys,  Leander 

Snow,  and  all 
Who  I  am  sure  would  answer  could  they 

only  hear  my  call! 

I  'd  like  to  see  Bill  Warner  and  the  Conkey 

boys  again 
And  talk  about  the  times  we  used  to  wish 

that  we  were  men ! 

82 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  one  —  I  shall  not  name  her  —  could  I 

see  her  gentle  face 
And  hear  her  girlish  treble  in  this  distant, 

lonely  place! 
The  flowers  and  hopes  of  springtime  —  they 

perished  long  ago, 
And  the  garden  where  they  blossomed  is 

white  with  winter  snow. 

O  cottage  neath  the  maples,  have  you  seen 

those  girls  and  boys 
That  but  a  little  while  ago  made,  ph!  such 

pleasant  noise  ? 

0  trees,  and  hills,  and  brooks,  and  lanes,  and 

meadows,  do  you  know 
Where  I  shall  find  my  little  friends  of  fort)- 

years  ago  ? 
You  see  I  'm  old  and  weary,  and  I  've  trav 

eled  long  and  far; 

1  am  looking  for  my  playmates  —  I  wonder 

where  they  are! 


STOVES  AND  SUNSHINE 


F)  RATE,  ye  who  will,  of  so-called  charms 

1      you  find  across  the  sea  — 

The  land  of  stoves  and  sunshine  is  good 

enough  for  me! 
I  've  done  the  grand  for  fourteen  months  in 

every  foreign  clime, 
And  I  've  learned  a  heap  of  learning,  but  I  've 

shivered  all  the  time ; 
And  the  biggest  bit  of  wisdom  I  've  acquired 

—  as  I  can  see  — 
Is  that  which  teaches  that  this  land's  the 

land  of  lands  for  me. 

Now,  I  am  of  opinion  that  a  person  should 

get  some 
Warmth  in  this  present  life  of  ours,  not  all 

in  that  to  come ; 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

So  when  Boreas  blows  his  blast,  through 

country  and  through  town, 
Or  when  upon  the  muddy  streets  the  stifling 

fog  rolls  down, 
Go,  guzzle  in  a  pub,  or  plod  some  bleak 

malarious  grove, 
But  let  me  toast  my  shrunken  shanks  beside 

some  Yankee  stove. 

The  British  people  say  they  "don't  believe 
in  stoves,  y'  know;" 

Perchance  because  we  warmed  'em  so  com 
pletely  years  ago! 

They  talk  of  "  drahfts"  and  "  stuffiness"  and 
"ill  effects  of  heat," 

As  they  chatter  in  their  barny  rooms  or 
shiver  'round  the  street; 

With  sunshine  such  a  rarity,  and  stoves  es 
teemed  a  sin, 

What  wonder  they  are  wedded  to  their  fads 
—  catarrh  and  gin  ? 

In  Germany  are  stoves  galore,  and  yet  you 

seldom  find 
A  fire  within  the  stoves,  for  German  stoves 

are  not  that  kind; 

85 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

The  Germans  say  that  fires  make  dirt,  and 
dirt 's  an  odious  thing, 

But  the  truth  is  that  the  pfennig  is  the  aver 
age  Teuton's  king, 

And  since  the  fire  costs  pfennigs,  why,  the 
thrifty  soul  denies 

Himself  all  heat  except  what  comes  with 
beer  and  exercise. 

The  Frenchman  builds  a  fire  of  cones,  the 

Irishman  of  peat; 
The  frugal  Dutchman  buys  a  fire  when  he 

has  need  of  heat  — 
That  is  to  say,  he  pays  so  much  each  day  to 

one  who  brings 
The  necessary  living  coals  to  warm  his  soup 

and  things ; 
In  Italy  and  Spain  they  have  no  need  to  heat 

the  house  — 
'Neath   balmy  skies  the  native  picks  the 

mandolin  and  louse. 

Now,  we  've  no  mouldy  catacombs,  no  feu 
dal  castles  grim, 

No  ruined  monasteries,  no  abbeys  ghostly 
dim; 

86 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Our  ancient  history  is  new,  our  future  's  all 
ahead, 

And  we  've  got  a  tariff  bill  that 's  made  all 
Europe  sick  abed  — 

But  what  is  best,  though  short  on  tombs 
and  academic  groves, 

We  double  discount  Christendom  on  sun 
shine  and  on  stoves. 

Dear  land  of  mine!     I  come  to  you  from 

months  of  chill  and  storm, 
Blessing  the  honest  people  whose  hearts  and 

hearths  are  warm ; 
A  fairer,  sweeter  song  than  this  I  mean  to 

weave  to  you 
When  I  've  reached  my  lakeside  'dobe  and 

once  get  heated  through ; 
But,  even  then,  the  burthen  of  that  fairer 

song  shall  be 
That  the  land  of  stoves  and  sunshine  is  good 

enough  for  me. 


A  DRINKING   SONG 


OME,  brothers,  share  the  fellowship 
We  celebrate  to-night ; 
There  's  grace  of  song  on  every  lip 

And  every  heart  is  light! 
But  first,  before  our  mentor  chimes 

The  hour  of  jubilee, 
Let 's  drink  a  health  to  good  old  times, 
And  good  times  yet  to  be! 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
Merrily  let  us  drink! 
There  's  store  of  wealth 
And  more  of  health 
In  every  glass,  we  think. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
To  fellowship  we  drink! 
And  from  the  bowl 
No  genial  soul 
In  such  an  hour  can  shrink. 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  you,  oh,  friends  from  west  and  east 

And  other  foreign  parts, 
Come  share  the  rapture  of  our  feast, 

The  love  of  loyal  hearts; 
And  in  the  wassail  that  suspends 

All  matters  burthensome, 
We  '11  drink  a  health  to  good  old  friends 
And  good  friends  yet  to  come. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
To  fellowship  we  drink! 
And  from  the  bowl 
No  genial  soul 
In  such  an  hour  will  shrink. 
Clink,  clink,  clink! 
Merrily  let  us  drink! 
There  's  fellowship 
In  every  sip 
Of  friendship's  brew,  we  think. 


THE   LIMITATIONS  OF  YOUTH 


I'D  like  to  be  a  cowboy  an'  ride  a  fiery 
boss 

Way  out  into  the  big  an'  boundless  west; 
I  'd  kill  the  bears  an'  catamounts  an'  wolves 

I  come  across, 

An'  I  'd  pluck  the  bal'  head  eagle  from  his 
nest! 

With  my  pistols  at  my  side, 
I  would  roam  the  prarers  wide, 
An'  to  scalp  the  savage  Injun  in  his  wigwam 
would  I  ride  — 

If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 

I  'd  like  to  go  to  Afriky  an'  hunt  the  lions 

there, 

An'  the  biggest  ollyfunts  you  ever  saw ! 
90 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  would  track  the  fierce  gorilla  to  his  equa 
torial  lair, 

An'  beard  the  cannybull  that  eats  folks 
raw! 

I  'd  chase  the  pizen  snakes 
An'  the  'pottimus  that  makes 
His  nest  down  at  the  bottom  of  unfathom 
able  lakes  — 

Ifldarst;  but  I  darse  n't! 

I  would  I  were  a  pirut  to  sail  the  ocean  blue, 

With  a  big  black  flag  aflyin'  overhead ; 
I  would  scour  the  billowy  main  with  my  gal 
lant  pirut  crew 

An'  dye  the  sea  a  gouty,  gory  red ! 
With  my  cutlass  in  my  hand 
On  the  quarterdeck  I  'd  stand 
And  to  deeds  of  heroism  I  'd  incite  my  pirut 
band  — 

If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 

And,  if  I  darst,  I  'd  lick  my  pa  for  the  times 

that  he  's  licked  me ! 
I  'd  lick  my  brother  an'  my  teacher,  too! 
I  'd  lick  the  fellers  that  call  round  on  sister 

after  tea, 

91 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

An'  I  'd  keep  on  lickin'  folks  till  I  got 
through ! 

You  bet !  I  'd  run  away 
From  my  lessons  to  my  play, 
An'  I  'd  shoo  the  hens,  an'  tease  the  cat,  an' 
kiss  the  girls  all  day  — 

If  I  darst;  but  I  darse  n't! 


THE   BOW-LEG  BOY 


WHO  should  come  up  the  road  one 
day 

But  the  doctor-man  in  his  two-wheel  shay ! 
And   he  whoaed  his   horse  and   he  cried 

"Ahoy! 

I  have  brought  you  folks  a  bow- leg  boy! 
Such  a  cute  little  boy ! 

Such  a  funny  little  boy ! 
Such  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy ! " 

He  took  out  his  box  and  he  opened  it  wide, 
And  there  was  the  bow-leg  boy  inside ! 
And  when  they  saw  that  cunning  little  mite, 
They  cried  in  a  chorus  expressive  of  delight : 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy ! 
What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy ! " 

93 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Observing  a  strict  geometrical  law, 
They  cut  out  his  panties  with  a  circular  saw ; 
Which  gave  such  a  stress  to  his  oval  stride 
That  the  people  he  met  invariably  cried : 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy ! 
What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy ! " 

They  gave  him  a  wheel  and  away  he  went 
Speeding  along  to  his  heart's  content; 
And  he  sits  so  straight  and  he  pedals  so 

strong 

That  the  folks  all  say  as  he  bowls  along: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy ! 
What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy ! " 

With  his  eyes  aflame  and  his  cheeks  aglow, 
He  laughs  " aha "  and  he  laughs  "oho " ; 
And  the  world  is  filled  and  thrilled  with  the 

joy 

Of  that  jolly  little  human,  the  bow-leg  boy  — 
The  cute  little  boy! 

The  funny  little  boy ! 
The  dear  little  bow-leg  boy! 

94 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

If  ever  the  doctor-man  comes  my  way 
With  his  wonderful  box  in  his  two-wheel 

shay, 

I  '11  ask  for  the  treasure  I  'd  fain  possess  — 
Now,  honest  Injun !  can't  you  guess  ? 
Why,  a  cute  little  boy  — 
A  funny  little  boy  — 
A  dear  little  bow-leg  boy ! 


THE  STRAW  PARLOR 


WAY  up  at  the  top  of  a  big  stack  of 
straw 
Was  the  cunningest  parlor  that  ever  you 

saw! 

And  there  could  you  lie  when  aweary  of  play 
And  gossip  or  laze  in  the  coziest  way ; 
No  matter  how  careworn  or  sorry  one's 

mood 

No  worldly  distraction  presumed  to  intrude. 
As  a  refuge  from  onerous  mundane  ado 
I  think  I  approve  of  straw  parlors,  don't 

you? 

A  swallow  with  jewels  aflame  on  her  breast 
On  that  straw  parlor's  ceiling  had  builded 

her  nest; 
And  she  flew  in  and  out  all  the  happy  day 

long, 

And  twittered  the  soothingest  lullaby  song. 
96 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Now  some  might  suppose  that  that  beauti 
ful  bird 

Performed  for  her  babies  the  music  they 
heard ; 

/reckon  she  twittered  her  repertoire  through 

For  the  folk  in  the  little  straw  parlor,  don't 
you? 

And  down  from  a  rafter  a  spider  had  hung 
Some  swings  upon  which  he  incessantly 

swung. 
He  cut  up  such  didoes  —  such  antics  he 

played 

Way  up  in  the  air,  and  was  never  afraid ! 
He  never  made  use  of  his  horrid  old  sting, 
But  was  just  upon  earth  for  the  fun  of  the 

thing! 

I  deeply  regret  to  observe  that  so  few 
Of  these  good-natured  insects  are  met  with, 

don't  you  ? 

And,  down  in  the  strawstack,  a  wee  little 

mite 
Of  a  cricket  went  chirping  by  day  and  by 

night; 

97 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  further  down,  still,  a  cunning  blue 

mouse 
In  a  snug  little  nook  of  that  strawstack  kept 

house! 
When    the    cricket    went    "chirp,"    Miss 

Mousie  would  squeak 
"Come  in,"  and  a  blush  would  enkindle 

her  cheek ! 
She  thought  —  silly  girl !  't  was  a  beau  come 

to  woo, 
But  I  guess  it  was  only  the  cricket,  don't 

you  ? 


So  the  cricket,  the  mouse,  and  the  motherly 

bird 
Made  as  soothingsome  music  as  ever  you 

heard; 
And,  meanwhile,  that  spider  by  means  of 

his  swings 
Achieved  most  astounding  gyrations   and 

things! 
No  wonder  the  little  folk  liked  what  they 

saw 
And  loved  what  they  heard  in  that  parlor  of 

straw ! 

98 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

With  the  mercury  up  to  102 
In  the  shade,  I  opine  they  just  sizzled,  don't 
you? 


But  once  there  invaded  that  Eden  of  straw 

The  evilest  Feline  that  ever  you  saw ! 

She   pounced    on   that  cricket   with   rare 

promptitude 
And  she  tucked  him  away  where  he  'd  do 

the  most  good; 
And  then,  reaching  down  to  the  nethermost 

house, 

She  deftly  expiscated  little  Miss  Mouse! 
And,  as  for  the  Swallow,  she  shrieked  and 

withdrew  — 
I  rather  admire  her  discretion,  don't  you  ? 

Now  listen:    That  evening  a  cyclone  ob 
tained, 

And  the  mortgage  was  all  on  that  farm  that 
remained ! 

Barn,  strawstack  and  spider  —  they  all  blew 
away, 

And  nobody  knows  where  they  're  at  to  this 
day! 

99 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And,  as  for  the  little  straw  parlor,  I  fear 
It   was   wafted   clean   off  this   sublunary 

sphere! 

I  really  incline  to  a  hearty  "  boo-hoo" 
When  I  think  of  this  tragical  ending,  don't 

you? 


100 


A  PITEOUS  PLAINT 


I  CANNOT  eat  my  porridge, 
I  weary  of  my  play ; 
No  longer  can  I  sleep  at  night, 

No  longer  romp  by  day! 
Though  forty  pounds  was  once  my  weight, 

I  'm  shy  of  thirty  now; 
I  pine,  I  wither  and  I  fade 
Through  love  of  Martha  Clow. 

As  she  rolled  by  this  morning 

I  heard  the  nurse  girl  say : 
"  She  weighs  just  twenty-seven  pounds 

And  she  's  one  year  old  to-day." 
I  threw  a  kiss  that  nestled 

In  the  curls  upon  her  brow, 
But  she  never  turned  to  thank  me  — 

That  bouncing  Martha  Clow! 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

She  ought  to  know  I  love  her, 

For  I  've  told  her  that  I  do ; 
And  I  've  brought  her  nuts  and  apples, 

And  sometimes  candy,  too! 
I  'd  drag  her  in  my  little  cart 

If  her  mother  would  allow 
That  delicate  attention 

To  her  daughter,  Martha  Clow. 

O  Martha!  pretty  Martha! 

Will  you  always  be  so  cold  ? 
Will  you  always  be  as  cruel 

As  you  are  at  one-year-old  ? 
Must  your  two-year-old  admirer 

Pine  as  hopelessly  as  now 
For  a  fond  reciprocation 

Of  his  love  for  Martha  Clow  ? 

You  smile  on  Bernard  Rogers 

And  on  little  Harry  Knott; 
You  play  with  them  at  peek-a-boo 

All  in  the  Waller  Lot! 
Wildly  I  gnash  my  new-cut  teeth 

And  beat  my  throbbing  brow, 
When  I  behold  the  coquetry 

Of  heartless  Martha  Clow ! 

102 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

I  cannot  eat  my  porridge, 

Nor  for  my  play  care  I ; 
Upon  the  floor  and  porch  and  lawn 

My  toys  neglected  lie ; 
But  on  the  air  of  Halsted  street 

I  breathe  this  solemn  vow : 
"  Though  she  be  false,  I  will  be  true 

To  pretty  Martha  Clow! " 


103 


THE  DISCREET  COLLECTOR 


DOWN  south  there  is  a  curio-shop 
Unknown  to  many  men; 
Thereat  do  I  intend  to  stop 
When  I  am  south  again; 
The  narrow  street  through  which  to.  go 

Aha!  I  know  it  well! 
And  may  be  you  would  like  to  know  — 
But  no  — I  will  not  tell! 

T  is  there  to  find  the  loveliest  plates 

(The  bluest  of  the  blue!) 
At  such  surprisingly  low  rates 

You  'd  not  believe  it  true ! 
And  there  is  one  Napoleon  vase 

Of  dainty  Sevres  to  sell  — 
I  'm  sure  you  'd  like  to  know  that  place 

But  no  — I  will  not  tell! 
1 04' 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Then,  too,  I  know  another  shop 

Has  old,  old  beds  for  sale, 
With  lovely  testers  up  on  top 

Carved  in  ornate  detail; 
And  there  are  sideboards  rich  and  rare, 

With  fronts  that  proudly  swell  — 
Oh,  there  are  bargains  waiting  there, 

But  where  I  will  not  tell! 

And  hark  !  I  know  a  bottle-man 

Smiling  and  debonair, 
And  he  has  promised  me  I  can 

Choose  of  his  precious  ware! 
In  age  and  shape  and  color,  too, 

His  dainty  goods  excel  — 
Aha,  my  friends,  if  you  but  knew  — 

But  no!  I  will  not  tell! 

A  thousand  other  shops  I  know 

Where  bargains  can  be  got  — 
Where  other  folk  would  like  to  go 

Who  have  what  I  have  not. 
I  let  them  hunt;  I  hold  my  mouth  — 

Yes,  though  I  know  full  well 
Where  lie  the  treasures  of  the  south, 

I  'm  not  a  going  to  tell! 
105 


A   VALENTINE 


YOUR  gran'ma,  in  her  youth,  was  quite 
As  blithe  a  little  maid  as  you. 
And,  though  her  hair  is  snowy  white, 

Her  eyes  still  have  their  maiden  blue, 
And  on  her  cheeks,  as  fair  as  thine, 

Methinks  a  girlish  blush  would  glow 
If  she  recalled  the  valentine 
She  got,  ah !  many  years  ago. 

A  valorous  youth  loved  gran'ma  then, 

And  wooed  her  in  that  auld  lang  syne; 
And  first  he  told  his  secret  when 

He  sent  the  maid  that  valentine. 
No  perfumed  page  nor  sheet  of  gold 

Was  that  first  hint  of  love  he  sent, 
But  with  the  secret  gran'pa  told  — 

"  I  love  you  "  —  gran'ma  was  content. 
106 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Go,  ask  your  gran'ma,  if  you  will, 

If — though  her  head  be  bowed  and  gray — 
If —  though  her  feeble  pulse  be  chill  — 

True  love  abideth  not  for  aye ; 
By  that  quaint  portrait  on  the  wall, 

That  smiles  upon  her  from  above, 
Methinks  your  gran'ma  can  recall 

The  sweet  divinity  of  love. 

Dear  Elsie,  here's  no  page  of  gold  — 

No  sheet  embossed  with  cunning  art  — 
But  here  's  a  solemn  pledge  of  old: 

"I  love  you,  love,  with  all  my  heart." 
And  if  in  what  I  send  you  here 

You  read  not  all  of  love  expressed, 
fio  —  go  to  gran'ma,  Elsie  dear, 

And  she  will  tell  you  all  the  rest! 


107 


THE   WIND 
(THE  TALE) 

/COMETH   the  Wind  from  the  garden, 
V^  fragrant  and  full  of  sweet  singing  — 
Under  my  tree  where  I  sit  cometh  the  Wind 
to  confession. 

"Out  in  the  garden  abides  the  Queen  of  the. 

beautiful  Roses  — 
Her  do  I  love  and  to-night  wooed  her  with 

passionate  singing; 
Told  I  my  love  in  those  songs,  and  answer 

she  gave  in  her  blushes  — 
She  shall  be  bride  of  the  Wind,  and  she  is 

the  Queen  of  the  Roses!  " 

"Wind,  there  is  spice  in  thy  breath;  thy 
rapture  hath  fragrance  Sabaean ! " 
108 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

' '  Straight  from  my  wooing  I  come  —  my  lips 
are  bedewed  with  her  kisses  — 

My  lips  and  my  song  and  my  heart  are 
drunk  with  the  rapture  of  loving!" 

(THE  SONG) 

The  Wind  he  loveth  the  red,  red  Rose, 
And  he  wooeth  his  love  to  wed : 
Sweet  is  his  song 
The  Summer  long 
As  he  kisseth  her  lips  so  red; 
And  he  recketh  naught  of  the  ruin  wrought 
When  the  Summer  of  love  is  sped! 

(AGAIN  THE  TALE) 

Cometh  the  Wind  from  the  garden,  bitter 
with  sorrow  of  winter. 

"  Wind,  is  thy  love-song  forgot  ?  Where 
fore  thy  dread  lamentations  ?  " 

Sigheth  and  moaneth  the  Wind:     "Out  of 

the  desolate  garden 
Come  I  from  vigils  with  ghosts  over  the 

grave  of  the  Summer!" 
109 


"Thy  breath  that  was  fragrant  anon  with 

rapture  of  music  and  loving, 
It  grieveth  all  things  with  its  sting  and  the 

frost  of  its  wailing  displeasure." 

The  Wind  maketh  ever  more  moan  and 

ever  it  giveth  this  answer: 
"My  heart  it  is  numb  with  the  cold  of  the 

love  that  was  born  of  the  Summer  — 
I  come  from  the  garden  all  white  with  the 

wrath  and  the  sorrow  of  Winter; 
I  have  kissed  the  low,  desolate  tomb  where 

my  bride  in  her  loveliness  lieth 
And  the  voice  of  the  ghost  in  my  heart  is  the 

voice  that  forever  outcrieth! " 

(AGAIN  THE  SONG) 

The  Wind  he  waileth  the  red,  red  Rose 
When  the  Summer  of  love  is  sped  — 
He  waileth  above 
His  lifeless  love 

With  her  shroud  of  snow  o'erspread — < 
Crieth  such  things  as  a  true  heart  brings 
To  the  grave  of  its  precious  dead. 


no 


A  PARAPHRASE 


OUR  Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed 
be  Thy  name; 
Thy  Kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done  on 

earth,  in  Heaven  the  same; 
Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,  and  may 

our  debts  to  heaven  — 
As  we  our  earthly  debts  forgive  —  by  Thee 

be  all  forgiven ; 
When  tempted  or  by  evil  vexed,  restore 

Thou  us  again, 
And  Thine  be  the  Kingdom,  the  Power,  and 

the  Glory,  forever  and  ever;  amen. 


in 


WITH  BRUTUS  IN  ST.  JO 


OF  all  the  opry-houses  then  obtaining  in 
the  West 
The  one  which  Milton  Tootle  owned  was, 

by  all  odds,  the  best; 
Milt,  being  rich,  was  much  too  proud  to  run 

the  thing  alone, 
So  he  hired  an  "  acting  manager,"  a  gruff 

old  man  named  Krone  — 
A  stern,  commanding  man  with  piercing 

eyes  and  flowing  beard, 
And  his  voice  assumed  a  thunderous  tone 

when  Jack  and  I  appeared ; 
He  said  that  Julius  Caesar  had  been  billed  a 

week  or  so, 
And  would  have  to  have  some  armies  by  the 

time  he  reached  St.  Jo! 


SONGS  AND  OTHER   VERSE 

O  happy  days,  when  Tragedy  still  winged 

an  upward  flight, 
When  actors  wore  tin  helmets  and  cambric 

robes  at  night! 
O  happy  days,  when  sounded  in  the  public's 

rapturous  ears 
The  creak  of  pasteboard  armor  and  the  clash 

of  wooden  spears! 
O  happy  times  for  Jack  and  me  and  that  one 

other  supe 

That  then  and  there  did  constitute  the  no 
blest  Roman's  troop ! 
With  togas,  battle  axes,  shields,  we  made  a 

dazzling  show, 
When  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus 

in  St.  Jo! 


We  wheeled  and  filed  and  double-quicked 
wherever  Brutus  led, 

The  folks  applauding  what  we  did  as  much 
as  what  he  said; 

'T  was  work,  indeed ;  yet  Jack  and  I  were 
willing  to  allow 

T  was  easier  following  Brutus  than  follow 
ing  father's  plough ; 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  at  each  burst  of  cheering,  our  valor 
would  increase  — 

We  tramped  a  thousand  miles  that  night,  at 
fifty  cents  apiece! 

For  love  of  Art  —  not  lust  for  gold  —  con 
sumed  us  years  ago, 

When  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus 
in  St.  Jo! 


To-day,  while  walking  in  the  Square,  Jack 

Langrish  says  to  me: 
"  My  friend,  the  drama  nowadays  ain't  what 

it  used  to  be! 
These  farces    and    these    comedies  —  how 

feebly  they  compare 
With  that  mantle  of  the  tragic  art  which 

Forrest  used  to  wear! 
My  soul  is  warped  with  bitterness  to  think 

that  you  and  I  — 
Co-heirs  to   immortality    in    seasons   long 

gone  by  — 
Now  draw  a  paltry  stipend  from  a  Boston 

comic  show, 
We,  who  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus 

in  St.  Jo!" 

"4 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  so  we  talked  and  so  we  mused  upon 

the  whims  of  Fate 
That  had  degraded  Tragedy  from  its  old, 

supreme  estate; 
And  duly,  at  the  Morton  bar,  we  stigmatized 

the  age 
As  sinfully  subversive  of  the  interests  of  the 

Stage ! 
For  Jack  and  I  were  actors  in  the  halcyon, 

palmy  days 
Long,  long  before  the  Hoyt  school  of  farce 

became  the  craze ; 
Yet,  as  I  now  recall  it,  it  was  twenty  years 

ago 
That  we  were  Roman  soldiers  with  Brutus 

in  St.  Jo! 


We  were  by  birth  descended  from  a  race  of 
farmer  kings 

Who  had  done  eternal  battle  with  grasshop 
pers  and  things; 

But  the  Kansas  farms  grew  tedious  —  we 
pined  for  that  delight 

We  read  of  in  the  Clipper  in  the  barber's 
shop  by  night  1 

"5 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

We  would  be  actors — Jack  and  I  —  and  so 

we  stole  away 
From  our  native  spot,  Wathena,  one  dull 

September  day, 
And  started  for  Missouri  —  ah,  little  did  we 

know 
We  were  going  to  train  as  soldiers  with 

Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 


Our  army  numbered  three  in  all  —  Marc  An 
tony's  was  four; 

Our  army  hankered  after  fame,  but  Marc's 
was  after  gore ! 

And  when  we  reached  Philippi,  at  the  out 
set  we  were  met 

With  an  inartistic  gusto  I  can  never  quite 
forget. 

For  Antony's  overwhelming  force  of  thump 
ers  seemed  to  be 

Resolved  to  do  "  them  Kansas  jays  "  —  and 
that  meant  Jack  and  me ! 

My  lips  were  sealed  but  that  it  seems  quite 
proper  you  should  know 

That  Rome  was  nowhere  in  it  at  Philippi  in 
St.  Jo! 

116 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  've  known  the  slow-consuming  grief  and 

ostentatious  pain 

Accruing  from  McKean  Buchanan's  melan 
choly  Dane; 
Away  out  West  I  've  witnessed  Bandmann's 

peerless  hardihood, 
With   Arthur  Cambridge  have  I  wrought 

where  walking  was  not  good ; 
In  every  phase  of  horror  have  I  bravely 

borne  my  part, 
And  even  on  my  uppers  have  I  proudly 

stood  for  Art! 
And,  after  all  my  suffering,  it  were  not  hard 

to  show 
That  I  got  my  allopathic  dose  with  Brutus 

at  St.  Jo ! 


That  army  fell  upon  me  in  a  most  bewilder 
ing  rage 

And  scattered  me  and  mine  upon  that  his 
trionic  stage; 

My  toga  rent,  my  helmet  gone  and  smashed 
to  smithereens, 

They  picked  me  up  and  hove  me  through 
whole  centuries  of  scenes! 
117 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  sailed  through  Christian  eras  and  mediaeval 

gloom 
And  fell   from   Arden  forest   into  Juliet's 

painted  tomb! 
Oh,  yes,  I  travelled  far  and  fast  that  night, 

and  I  can  show 
The  scars  of  honest  wounds  I  got  with 

Brutus  in  St.  Jo! 


Ah  me,  old  Davenport  is  gone,  of  fickle  fame 

forgot, 

And  Barrett  sleeps  forever  in  a  much  neg 
lected  spot; 
Fred  Warde,  the  papers  tell  me,  in  far  woolly 

western  lands 
Still  flaunts  the  banner  of  high  Tragic  Art 

at  one-night  stands ; 
And  Jack  and  I,  in  Charley  Hoyt's  Bostonian 

dramas  wreak 
Our  vengeance  on  creation  at  some  eensty 

dolls,  per  week. 
By  which  you  see  that  public  taste  has  fallen 

mighty  low 
Since  we  fought  as  Roman  soldiers  with 

Brutus  in  St.  Jo ! 

US 


THE  TWO  LITTLE  SKEEZUCKS 


THERE  were  two  little  skeezucks  who 
lived  in  the  isle 
Of  Boo  in  a  southern  sea; 
They  clambered  and  rollicked  in  heathenish 

style 

In  the  boughs  of  their  cocoanut  tree. 
They  did  n't  fret  much  about  clothing  and 

such 

And  they  recked  not  a  whit  of  the  ills 
That  sometimes  accrue 
From  having  to  do 
With  tailor  and  laundry  bills. 

The  two  little  skeezucks  once  heard  of  a 

Fair 

Far  off  from  their  native  isle, 
And  they  asked  of  King  Fan  if  they  might  n't 

go  there 

To  take  in  the  sights  for  awhile. 
119 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Now  old  King  Fan 

Was  a  good-natured  man 

(As  good-natured  monarchs  go), 

And  howbeit  he  swore  that  all  Fairs  were  a 
bore, 

He  had  n't  the  heart  to  say  "No." 

So  the  two  little  skeezucks  sailed  off  to  the 

Fair 

In  a  great  big  gum  canoe, 
And  I  fancy  they  had  a  good  time  there, 

For  they  tarried  a  year  or  two. 
And  old  King  Fan  at  last  began 
To  reckon  they  'd  come  to  grief, 
When  glory!  one  day 
They  sailed  into  the  bay 
To  the  tune  of  "  Hail  to  the  Chief! " 

The  two  little  skeezucks  fell  down  on  the 

sand, 

Embracing  his  majesty's  toes, 
Till  his  majesty  graciously  bade  them  stand 
And  salute  him  nose  to  nose. 
And  then  quoth  he: 
"Divulge  unto  me 

130 


SONGS   AND    OTHER   VERSE 

What  happenings  have  hapt  to  you; 
And  how  did  they  dare  to  indulge  in  a  Fair 
So  far  from  the  island  of  Boo  ?  " 

The  two  little  skeezucks  assured  their  king 

That  what  he  surmised  was  true; 
That  the  Fair  would  have  been  a  different 

thing 

Had  it  only  been  held  in  Boo ! 
"The  folk  over  there  in  no  wise  compare 
With  the  folk  of  the  southern  seas; 

Why,  they  comb  out  their  heads 
And  they  sleep  in  beds 
Instead  of  in  caverns  and  trees ! " 

The  two  little  skeezucks  went  on  to  say 

That  children  (so  far  as  they  knew) 
Had  a  much  harder  time  in  that  land  far  away 
Than  here  in  the  island  of  Boo! 
They  have  to  wear  clo'es 
Which  (as  every  one  knows) 
Are  irksome  to  primitive  laddies, 
While,  with  forks  and  with  spoons,  they  're 

denied  the  sweet  boons 
That  accrue  from  free  use  of  one's  pad 
dies! 

131 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

"And  now  that  you're  speaking  of  things 

to  eat," 

Interrupted  the  monarch  of  Boo, 
"We  beg  to  inquire  if  you  happened  to 

meet 

With  a  nice  missionary  or  two  ?  " 
"  No,  that  we  did  not;  in  that  curious  spot 
Where  were  gathered  the  fruits  of  the 
earth, 

Of  that  special  kind 
Which  Your  Nibs  has  in  mind 
There  appeared  a  deplorable  dearth !  " 

Then  loud  laughed  that  monarch  in  heath 
enish  mirth 

And  loud  laughed  his  courtiers,  too, 
And  they  cried:  "There  is  elsewhere  no 

land  upon  earth 
So  good  as  our  island  of  Boo! " 

And  the  skeezucks,  tho'  glad 
Of  the  journey  they  'd  had, 
Climbed  up  in  their  cocoanut  trees, 
Where  they  still  may  be  seen  with  no  shirts 

to  keep  clean 
Or  trousers  that  bag  at  the  knees. 


133 


PAN   LIVETH 


THEY  told  me  once  that  Pan  was  dead, 
And  so,  in  sooth,  I  thought  him; 
For  vainly  where  the  streamlets  led 

Through  flowery  meads  I  sought  him  — 
Nor  in  his  dewy  pasture  bed 
Nor  in  the  grove  I  caught  him. 
"  Tett  me/'  'twas  so  my  clamor  ran  — 
"  Tett  me,  oh,  where  is  Pan  ?" 

But,  once,  as  on  my  pipe  I  played 

A  requiem  sad  and  tender, 
Lo,  thither  came  a  shepherd-maid  — 

Full  comely  she  and  slender  !  ( 
I  were  indeed  a  churlish  blade 
With  wailings  to  offend  'er  — 
For,  surely,  wooing' s  sweeter  than 
A  mourning  over  Pan! 
123 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

So,  presently,  whiles  I  did  scan 
That  shepherd-maiden  pretty, 
And  heard  her  accents,  I  began 

To  pipe  a  cheerful  ditty ; 
And  so,  betimes,  forgot  old  Pan 
Whose  death  had  waked  my  pity; 
So — so  did  Love  undo  the  man 
Who  sought  and  pined  for  Pan! 

He  was  not  dead !     I  found  him  there  — 

The  Pan  that  I  was  after! 
Caught  in  that  maiden's  tangling  hair, 
Drunk  with  her  song  and  laughter! 
I  doubt  if  there  be  otherwhere 
A  merrier  god  or  dafter  — 
Nay,  nor  a  mortal  kindlier  than 
Is  this  same  dear  old  Pan! 

Beside  me,  as  my  pipe  I  play, 

My  shepherdess  is  lying, 
While  here  and  there  her  lambkins  stray 

As  sunny  hours  go  flying; 
They  look  like  me —  those  lambs — they  say, 
And  that  I  'm  not  denying! 
And  for  that  sturdy,  romping  clan, 
Att  glory  be  to  Pan! 
124 


SONGS   AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Pan  is  not  dead,  O  sweetheart  mine! 

It  is  to  hear  his  voices 
In  every  note  and  every  line 

Wherein  the  heart  rejoices! 
He  liveth  in  that  sacred  shrine 
That  Love's  first,  holiest  choice  is! 
So  pipe,  my  pipe,  while  still  you  can, 
Sweet  songs  in  praise  of  Pan  ! 


125 


DR.  SAM 

TO  MISS  GRACE   KING 

DOWN  in  the  old  French  quarter, 
Just  out  of  Rampart  street, 
I  wend  my  way 
At  close  of  day 
Unto  the  quaint  retreat 
Where  lives  the  Voodoo  Doctor 

By  some  esteemed  a  sham, 
Yet  I  '11  declare  there  's  none  elsewhere 
So  skilled  as  Doctor  Sam 

With  the  claws  of  a  deviled  crawfish, 
The  juice  of  the  prickly  prune, 
And  the  quivering  dew 
From  a  yarb  that  grew 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 
126 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  never  should  have  known  him 
But  for  the  colored  folk 
That  here  obtain 
And  ne'er  in  vain 
That  wizard's  art  invoke; 
For  when  the  Eye  that 's  Evil 
Would  him  and  his'n  damn, 
The  negro's  grief  gets  quick  relief 
Of  Hoodoo-Doctor  Sam. 

With  the  caul  of  an  alligator, 
Tbe  plume  of  an  unborn  loon, 
And  the  poison  wrung 
From  a  serpent's  tongue 
By  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 

In  all  neurotic  ailments 
I  hear  that  he  excels, 
And  he  insures 
Immediate  cures 
Of  weird,  uncanny  spells; 
The  most  unruly  patient 
Gets  docile  as  a  lamb 
And  is  freed  from  ill  by  the  potent  skill 
Of  Hoodoo-Doctor  Sam ; 
Feathers  of  strangled  chickens, 
Moss  from  the  dank  lagoon, 
127 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  plasters  wet 
With  spider  sweat 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 

They  say  when  nights  are  grewsome 
And  hours  are,  oh !  so  late, 
Old  Sam  steals  out 
And  hunts  about 
For  charms  that  hoodoos  hate! 
That  from  the  moaning  river 
And  from  the  haunted  glen 
He  silently  brings  what  eerie  things 
Give  peace  to  hoodooed  men :  — 
The  tongue  of  a  piebald  'possum, 

The  tooth  of  a  senile  'coon, 
The  bu%%ard's  breath  that  smells  of 

death, 

And  the  film  that  lies 
On  a  lizard's  eyes 
In  the  light  of  a  midnight  moon! 


128 


WINFREDA 

(A  BALLAD  IN  THE  ANGLO-SAXON  TONGUE) 

WHEN  to  the  dreary  greenwood  gloam 
Winfreda's  husband  strode  that  day, 
The  fair  Winfreda  bode  at  home 
To  toil  the  weary  time  away ; 
"  While  thou  art  gone  to  hunt,"  said  she, 
"I  '11  brew  a  goodly  sop  for  thee." 

Lo,  from  a  further,  gloomy  wood, 
A  hungry  wolf  all  bristling  hied 

And  on  the  cottage  threshold  stood 
And  saw  the  dame  at  work  inside; 

And,  as  he  saw  the  pleasing  sight, 

He  licked  his  fangs  so  sharp  and  white. 

Now  when  Winfreda  saw  the  beast, 
Straight  at  the  grinning  wolf  she  ran, 

And,  not  affrighted  in  the  least, 
She  hit  him  with  her  cooking  pan, 
129 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  as  she  thwacked  him  on  the  head  — 
"Scat!  scat!  "  the  fair  Winfreda  said. 


The  hills  gave  answer  to  their  din  — 
The  brook  in  fear  beheld  the  sight. 

And  all  that  bloody  field  within 
Wore  token  of  Winfreda's  might. 

The  wolf  was  very  loath  to  stay  — 

But,  oh !  he  could  not  get  away. 


Winfreda  swept  him  o'er  the  wold 
And  choked  him  till  his  gums  were  blue, 

And  till,  beneath  her  iron  hold, 
His  tongue  hung  out  a  yard  or  two, 

And  with  his  hair  the  riven  ground 

Was  strewn  for  many  leagues  around. 


They  fought  a  weary  time  that  day, 
And  seas  of  purple  blood  were  shed, 

Till  by  Winfreda's  cunning  lay 
That  awful  wolf  all  limp  and  dead ; 

Winfreda  saw  him  reel  and  drop  — 

Then  back  she  went  to  brewing  sop. 
130 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

So  when  the  husband  came  at  night 
From  bootless   chase,  cold,   gaunt,  and 
grim, 

Great  was  that  Saxon  lord's  delight 
To  find  the  sop  dished  up  for  him; 

And  as  he  ate,  Winfreda  told 

How  she  had  laid  the  wolf  out  cold. 


The  good  Winfreda  of  those  days 
Is  only  "pretty  Birdie"  now  — 

Sickly  her  soul  and  weak  her  ways  — 
And  she,  to  whom  we  Saxons  bow, 

Leaps  on  a  bench  and  screams  with  fright 

If  but  a  mouse  creeps  into  sight. 


LYMAN,  FREDERICK,  AND  JIM 

(FOR  THE   FELLOWSHIP  CLUB) 

CMAN  and  Frederick  and  Jim,  one  day, 
Set  out  in  a  great  big  ship  — 
Steamed  to  the  ocean  adown  the  bay 

Out  of  a  New  York  slip. 
"Where  are  you  going  and  what  is  your 

game  ?  " 

The  people  asked  those  three. 
"  Darned  if  we  know;  but  all  the  same 
Happy  as  larks  are  we; 
And  happier  still  we  're  going  to  be! " 
Said  Lyman 
And  Frederick 
And  Jim. 

The  people  laughed  "Aha,  oho! 

Oho,  aha!  "  laughed  they; 
And  while  those  three  went  sailing  so 

Some  pirates  steered  that  way. 
132 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  pirates  they  were  laughing,  too  — 

The  prospect  made  them  glad; 
But  by  the  time  the  job  was  through 
Each  of  them  pirates,  bold  and  bad, 
Had  been  done  out  of  all  he  had 
By  Lyman 
And  Frederick 
And  Jim. 

Days  and  weeks  and  months  they  sped, 

Painting  that  foreign  clime 
A  beautiful,  bright  vermilion  red  — 

And  having  a of  a  time! 

'T  was  all  so  gaudy  a  lark,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 
And  some  folks  thought  it  a  dream  they 

dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  foreign  sea, 
But  I  '11  identify  you  these  three  — 
Lyman 

And  Frederick 
And  Jim. 

Lyman  and  Frederick  are  bankers  and  sich 
And  Jim  is  an  editor  kind; 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  first  two  named  are  awfully  rich 

And  Jim  ain't  far  behind! 
So  keep  your  eyes  open  and  mind  your 

tricks, 

Or  you  are  like  to  be 
In  quite  as  much  of  a  Tartar  fix 
As  the  pirates  that  sailed  the  sea 
And  monkeyed  with  the  pardners  three, 
Lyman 

And  Frederick 
And  Jim! 


BE  MY  SWEETHEART 


O  WEETHEART,  be  my  sweetheart 
O  When  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
When  bee  and  bud  and  babbling  flood 

Bespeak  the  birth  of  spring, 
Come,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 

And  wear  this  posy-ring! 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart, 
In  the  mellow  golden  g!#w 

Of  earth  aflush  with  the  gracious  blush 
Which  the  ripening  fields  foreshow; 

Dear  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart, 
As  into  the  noon  we  go! 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
When  falls  the  bounteous  year, 

When  fruit  and  wine  of  tree  and  vine 
Give  us  their  harvest  cheer; 

Oh,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart, 
For  winter  it  draweth  near. 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
When  the  year  is  white  and  old, 

When  the  fire  of  youth  is  spent,  forsooth, 
And  the  hand  of  age  is  cold ; 

Yet,  sweetheart,  be  my  sweetheart 
Till  the  year  of  our  love  be  told ! 


130 


THE   PETER-BIRD 


OUT  of  the  woods  by  the  creek  cometh 
a  calling  for  Peter, 

And  from  the  orchard  a  voice  echoes  and 
echoes  it  over; 

Down  in  the  pasture  the  sheep  1/ar  that 
strange  crying  for  Peter, 

Over  the  meadows  that  call  is  aye  and  for 
ever  repeated. 

So  let  me  tell  you  the  tale,  when,  where,  and 
how  it  all  happened, 

And,  when  the  story  is  told,  let  us  pay  heed 
to  the  lesson. 

Once  on  a  time,  long  ago,  lived  in  the  State 

of  Kentucky 
One  that  was  reckoned  a  witch  —  full  of 

strange  spells  and  devices ; 
Nightly  she  wandered  the  woods,  searching 

for  charms  voodooistic  — 

'37 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Scorpions,  lizards,  and  herbs,  dormice, 
chameleons,  and  plantains! 

Serpents  and  caw-caws  and  bats,  screech- 
owls  and  crickets  and  adders  — 

These  were  the  guides  of  that  witch  through 
the  dank  deeps  of  the  forest. 

Then,  with  her  roots  and  her  herbs,  back  to 
her  cave  in  the  morning 

Ambled  that  hussy  to  brew  spells  of  un 
speakable  evil; 

And,  when  the  people  awoke,  seeing  that 
hillside  and  valley 

Sweltered  in  swathes  as  of  mist — "  Look!  " 
they  would  whisper  in  terror  — 

"  Look!  the  old  witch  is  at  work  brewing 
her  spells  of  great  evil! " 

Then  would  they  pray  till  the  sun,  darting 
his  rays  through  the  vapor, 

Lifted  the  smoke  from  the  earth  and  baffled 
the  witch's  intentions. 


One  of  the  boys  at  that  time  was  a  certain 

young  person  named  Peter, 
Given  too  little  to  work,  given  too  largely 

to  dreaming; 

138 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Fonder  of  books  than  of  chores,  you  can 
imagine  that  Peter 

Led  a  sad  life  on  the  farm,  causing  his  par 
ents  much  trouble. 

' '  Peter  1 "  his  mother  would  call,  ' '  the  cream 
is  a'ready  for  churning! " 

"  Peter!  "  his  father  would  cry,  "go  grub  at 
the  weeds  in  the  garden!  " 

So  it  was  "Peter!"  all  day  —  calling,  re 
minding,  and  chiding  — 

Peter  neglected  his  work ;  therefore  that  nag 
ging  at  Peter! 


Peter  got  hold  of  some  books  —  how,  I  'm 

unable  to  tell  you; 
Some  have  suspected  the  witch  —  this  is  no 

place  for  suspicions ! 
It  is  sufficient  to  stick  close  to  the  thread  of 

the  legend. 
Nor  is  it  stated  or  guessed  what  was  the 

trend  of  those  volumes ; 
What  thing  soever  it  was  —  done  with  a  pen 

and  a  pencil, 
Wrought  with  a  brain,  not  a  hoe  —  surely 

'twas  hostile  to  farming! 

"39 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

"Fudge  on  all  readin'l"  they  quoth;  or 
"  that 's  what 's  the  ruin  of  Peter! " 

So,  when  the  mornings  were  hot,  under  the 

beech  or  the  maple, 
Cushioned  in  grass  that  was  blue,  breathing 

the  breath  of  the  blossoms, 
Lulled  by  the  hum  of  the  bees,  the  coo  of 

the  ring-doves  a-mating, 
Peter  would  frivol  his  time  at  reading,  or 

lazing,  or  dreaming. 
"Peter!"    his    mother    would    call,   "the 

cream  is  a'ready  for  churning! " 
"  Peter! "  his  father  would  cry,  "go  grub  at 

the  weeds  in  the  garden!  " 
"Peter!"  and  "Peter!"  all  day  — calling, 

reminding,  and  chiding  — 
Peter  neglected  his  chores;   therefore  that 

outcry  for  Peter; 
Therefore  the  neighbors  allowed  evil  would 

surely  befall  him  — 
Yes,  on  account  of  these  things,  ruin  would 

come  upon  Peter! 

Surely  enough,  on  a  time,  reading  and  laz 
ing  and  dreaming 
140 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Wrought  the  calamitous  ill  all  had  predicted 
for  Peter; 

For,  of  a  morning  in  spring  when  lay  the 
mist  in  the  valleys  — 

"See,"  quoth  the  folk,  "how  the  witch 
breweth  her  evil  decoctions ! 

See  how  the  smoke  from  her  fire  broodeth 
on  woodland  and  meadow! 

Grant  that  the  sun  cometh  out  to  smother 
the  smudge  of  her  caldron! 

She  hath  been  forth  in  the  night,  full  of  her 
spells  and  devices, 

Roaming  the  marshes  and  dells  for  heathen  • 
ish  magical  nostrums; 

Digging  in  leaves  and  at  stumps  for  centi 
pedes,  pismires,  and  spiders, 

Grubbing  in  poisonous  pools  for  hot  sala 
manders  and  toadstools; 

Charming  the  bats  from  the  flues,  snaring 
the  lizards  by  twilight, 

Sucking  the  scorpion's  egg  and  milking  the 
breast  of  the  adder! " 


Peter  derided  these  things  held  in  such  faith 
by  the  farmer, 

141 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Scouted  at  magic  and  charms,  hooted  at 

Jonahs  and  hoodoos  — 
Thinking  and  reading  of  books  must  have 

unsettled  his  reason! 
"There  ain't  no  witches,"  he  cried;  "it 

is  n't  smoky,  but  foggy ! 
I  will  go  out  in  the  wet  —  you  all  can't  hen- 

der  me,  nuther!" 


Surely  enough  he  went  out  into  the  damp 

of  the  morning, 
Into  the  smudge  that  the  witch  spread  over 

woodland  and  meadow, 
Into  the  fleecy  gray  pall  brooding  on  hillside 

and  valley. 
Laughing  and  scoffing,  he  strode  into  that 

hideous  vapor; 
Just  as  he  said  he  would  do,  just  as  he 

bantered  and  threatened, 
Ere  they  could  fasten  the  door,  Peter  had 

done  gone  and  done  it! 
Wasting  his  time  over  books,  you  see,  had 

unsettled  his  reason  — 
Soddened  his  callow  young  brain  with  semi- 
pubescent  paresis, 
141 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  his  neglect  of  his  chores  hastened  this 
evil  condition. 


Out  of  the  woods  by  the  creek  cometh  a 
calling  for  Peter 

And  from  the  orchard  a  voice  echoes  and 
echoes  it  over; 

Down  in  the  pasture  the  sheep  hear  that 
shrill  crying  for  Peter, 

Up  from  the  spring  house  the  wail  stealeth 
anon  like  a  whisper, 

Over  the  meadows  that  call  is  aye  and  for 
ever  repeated. 

Such  were  the  voices  that  whooped  wildly 
and  vainly  for  Peter 

Decades  and  decades  ago  down  in  the  State 
of  Kentucky  — 

Such  are  the  voices  that  cry  now  from  the 
woodland  and  meadow, 

"  Peter — O  Peter!  "  all  day,  calling,  remind 
ing,  and  chiding  — 

Taking  us  back  to  the  time  when  Peter  he 
done  gone  and  done  it! 

These  are  the  voices  of  those  left  by  the  boy 
in  the  farmhouse 
143 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

When,  with  his  laughter  and  scorn,  hatless 

and  bootless  and  sockless, 
Clothed  in  his  jeans  and  his  pride,  Peter 

sailed  out  in  the  weather, 
Broke  from  the  warmth  of  his  home  into 

that  fog  of  the  devil, 
Into  the  smoke  of  that  witch  brewing  her 

damnable  porridge! 


Lo,  when  he  vanished  from  sight,  knowing 

the  evil  that  threatened, 
Forth  with  importunate  cries  hastened  his 

father  and  mother. 
"  Peter! "  they  shrieked  in  alarm,  "  Peter! " 

and  evermore  "  Peter!  "  — 
Ran  from  the  house  to  the  barn,  ran  from  the 

barn  to  the  garden, 
Ran  to  the  corn-crib   anon,   then  to  the 

smoke-house  proceeded; 
Henhouse  and  woodpile  they  passed,  calling 

and  wailing  and  weeping, 
Through  the  front  gate  to  the  road,  braving 

the  hideous  vapor  — 
Sought  him  in  lane  and  on  pike,  called  him 

in  orchard  and  meadow, 
144 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Clamoring  "  Peter! "  in  vain,  vainly  outcry 
ing  for  Peter. 

Joining  the  search  came  the  rest,  brothers 
and  sisters  and  cousins, 

Venting  unspeakable  fears  in  pitiful  wailing 
for  Peter! 

And  from  the  neighboring  farms  gathered 
the  men  and  the  women, 

Who,  upon  hearing  the  news,  swelled  the 
loud  chorus  for  Peter. 


Farmers  and  hussifs  and  maids,  bosses  and 

field-hands  and  niggers, 
Colonels  and  jedges  galore  from  cornfields 

and  mint-beds  and  thickets, 
All  that  had  voices  to  voice,  all  to  those 

parts  appertaining, 
Came  to  engage  in  the  search,  gathered  and 

bellowed  for  Peter. 
The  Taylors,  the  Dorseys,  the  Browns,  the 

Wallers,  the  Mitchells,  the  Logans, 
The  Yenowines,   Crittendens,   Dukes,  the 

Hickmans,  the  Hobbses,  the  Morgans; 
The  Ormsbys,  the  Thompsons,  the  Hikes, 

the  Williamsons,  Murrays,  and  Hardins, 

'45 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  Beynroths,  the  Sherleys,  the  Hokes,  the 

Haldermans,  Harneys,  and  Slaughters — 
AH,  famed  in  Kentucky  of  old  for  prowess 

prodigious  at  farming, 
Now  surged  from  their  prosperous  homes 

to  join  in  that  hunt  for  the  truant, 
To  ascertain  where  he  was  at,  to  help  out 

the  chorus  for  Peter. 


Still  on  those  prosperous  farms  where  heirs 
and  assigns  of  the  people 

Specified  hereinabove  and  proved  by  the 
records  of  probate  — 

Still  on  those  farms  shall  you  hear  (and  still 
on  the  turnpikes  adjacent) 

That  pitiful,  petulant  call,  that  pleading,  ex- 
postulant  wailing, 

That    hopeless,    monotonous    moan,   that 
crooning  and  droning  for  Peter. 

Some  say  the  witch  in  her  wrath  trans 
mogrified  all  those  good  people; 

That,  wakened  from  slumber  that  day  by 
the  calling  and  bawling  for  Peter, 

She  out  of  her  cave  in  a  thrice,  and,  waving 
the  foot  of  a  rabbit 
146 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

(Crossed  with  the  caul  of  a  coon  and 
smeared  with  the  blood  of  a  chicken), 

She  changed  all  those  folk  into  birds  and 
shrieked  with  demoniac  venom : 

"Fly  away  over  the  land,  moaning  your 
Peter  forever, 

Croaking  of  Peter,  the  boy  who  did  n't  be 
lieve  there  were  hoodoos, 

Crooning  of  Peter,  the  fool  who  scouted  at 
stories  of  witches, 

Crying  of  Peter  for  aye,  forever  outcaUing 
for  Peter!" 


This  is  the  story  they  tell ;  so  in  good  sooth 

saith  the  legend; 
As  I  have  told  it  to  you,  so  tell  the  folk  and 

the  legend. 
That  it  is  true  I  believe,  for  on  the  breezes 

this  morning 
Come  the  shrill  voices  of  birds  calling  and 

calling  for  Peter; 
Out  of  the  maple  and  beech  glitter  the  eyes 

of  the  waiters, 
Peeping  and  peering  for  him  who  formerly 

lived  in  these  places  — 

«47 


Peter,  the  heretic  lad,  lazy  and  careless  and 
dreaming, 

Sorely  afflicted  with  books  and  with  pubes 
cent  paresis, 

Hating  the  things  of  the  farm,  care  of  the 
barn  and  the  garden, 

Always  neglecting  his  chores  —  given  to 
books  and  to  reading, 

Which,  as  all  people  allow,  turn  the  young 
person  to  mischief, 

Harden  his  heart  against  toil,  wean  his  affec 
tions  from  tillage. 


This  is  the  legend  of  yore  told  in  the  state  of 

Kentucky 
When  in  the  springtime  the  birds  call  from 

the  beeches  and  maples, 
Call  from  the  petulant  thorn,  call  from  the 

acrid  persimmon; 
When  from  the  woods  by  the  creek  and 

from  the  pastures  and  meadows, 
When  from  the  spring  house  and  lane  and 

from  the  mint-bed  and  orchard, 
When  from  the  redbud  and  gum  and  from 

the  redolent  lilac, 
148 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

When  from  the  dirt  roads  and  pikes  cometh 
that  calling  for  Peter; 

Cometh  the  dolorous  cry,  cometh  that  weird 
iteration 

Of"  Peter  "  and  "  Peter"  for  aye,  of"  Peter" 
and  "Peter "forever! 

This  is  the  legend  of  old,  told  in  the  tum- 
titty  meter 

Which  the  great  poets  prefer,  being  less  la 
bor  than  rhyming 

(My  first  attempt  at  the  same,  my  last  at 
tempt,  too,  I  reckon!); 

Nor  have  1  further  to  say,  for  the  sad  story 
is  ended. 


149 


SISTER'S  CAKE 


I'D  not  complain  of  Sister  Jane,  for  she 
was  good  and  kind, 

Combining  with  rare  comeliness  distinctive 
gifts  of  mind ; 

Nay,  I  '11  admit  it  were  most  fit  that,  worn 
by  social  cares, 

She  'd  crave  a  change  from  parlor  life  to  that 
below  the  stairs, 

And  that,  eschewing  needlework  and  music, 
she  should  take 

Herself  to  the  substantial  art  of  manufact 
uring  cake. 

At  breakfast,  then,  it  would  befall  that  Sister 

Jane  would  say: 
"Mother,  if  you  have  got  the  things,  I  '11 

make  some  cake  to-day ! " 
150 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Poor  mother  'd  cast  a  timid  glance  at  father, 

like  as  not  — 
For  father  hinted   sister's  cooking  cost  a 

frightful  lot  — 
But  neither  she  nor  he  presumed  to  signify 

dissent, 
Accepting  it  for  gospel  truth  that  what  she 

wanted  went! 

No  matter  what  the  rest  of  'em  might  chance 

to  have  in  hand, 
The  whole  machinery  of  the  house  came  to 

a  sudden  stand ; 
The  pots  were  hustled  off  the  stove,  the  fire 

built  up  anew, 
With  every  damper  set  just  so  to  heat  the 

oven  through ; 
The  kitchen-table  was  relieved  of  everything, 

to  make 
That  ample  space  which  Jane  required  when 

she  compounded  cake. 

And,  oh!  the  bustling  here  and  there,  the 

flying  to  and  fro ; 
The  click  of  forks  that  whipped  the  eggs  to 

lather  white  as  snow  — 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And  what  a  wealth  of  sugar  melted  swiftly 
out  of  sight  — 

And  butter  ?  Mother  said  such  waste  would 
ruin  father,  quite! 

But  Sister  Jane  preserved  a  mien  no  plead 
ing  could  confound 

As  she  utilized  the  raisins  and  the  citron  by 
the  pound. 

Oh,  hours  of  chaos,  tumult,  heat,  vexatious 

din,  and  whirl! 

Of  deep  humiliation  for  the  sullen  hired-girl; 
Of  grief  for  mother,  hating  to  see  things 

wasted  so, 
And  of  fortune  for  that  little  boy  who  pined 

to  taste  that  dough! 
It  looked  so  sweet  and  yellow  —  sure,  to 

taste  it  were  no  sin  — 
But,  oh !  how  sister  scolded  if  he  stuck  his 

finger  in ! 

The  chances  were  as  ten  to  one,  before  the 

job  was  through, 
That  sister  'd  think  of  something  else  she  'd 

great  deal  rather  do ! 
152 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

So,  then,  she  'd  softly  steal  away,  as  Arabs 
in  the  night, 

Leaving  the  girl  and  ma  to  finish  up  as  best 
they  might; 

These  tactics  (artful  Sister  Jane)  enabled  her 
to  take 

Or  shift  the  credit  or  the  blarne  of  that  too- 
treacherous  cake ! 

And  yet,  unhappy  is  the  man  who  has  no 
Sister  Jane  — 

For  he  who  has  no  sister  seems  to  me  to 
live  in  vain. 

I  never  had  a  sister  —  may  be  that  is  why  to 
day 

I  'm  wizened  and  dyspeptic,  instead  of  blithe 
and  gay ; 

A  boy  who  's  only  forty  should  be  full  of 
romp  and  mirth, 

But  /  (because  I  'm  sisterless)  am  the  oldest 
man  on  earth! 

Had  I  a  little  sister  —  oh,  how  happy  I  should 

be! 
I  'd  never  let  her  cast  her  eyes  on  any  chap 

but  me; 


SONGS   AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  'd  love  her  and  I  'd  cherish  her  for  better 

and  for  worse  — 
I  'd  buy  her  gowns  and  bonnets,  and  sing 

her  praise  in  verse ; 
And  —  yes,  what 's  more  and  vastly  more  — 

I  tell  you  what  I  'd  do : 
I  'd  let  her  make  her  wondrous  cake,  and  I 

would  eat  it,  too ! 

I  have  a  high  opinion  of  the  sisters,  as  you 

OAO 

OCC 

Another  fellow's  sister  is  so  very  dear  to  me! 

I  love  to  work  anear  her  when  she  's  mak 
ing  over  frocks, 

When  she  patches  little  trousers  or  darns 
prosaic  socks ; 

But  I  draw  the  line  at  one  thing  —  yes,  I  don 
my  hat  and  take 

A  three  hours'  walk  when  she  is  moved  to 
try  her  hand  at  cake ! 


'54 


ABU  MIDJAN 


"  TJ7HEN  Father  Time  swings  round 

rr       his  scythe, 

Intomb  me  'neath  the  bounteous  vine, 
So  that  its  juices,  red  and  blithe, 

May  cheer  these  thirsty  bones  of  mine. 

"  Elsewise  with  tears  and  bated  breath 

Should  I  survey  the  life  to  be. 
But  oh!    How  should  I  hail  the  death 

That  brings  that  "vinous  grace  tome!  " 

So  sung  the  dauntless  Saracen, 
Whereat  the  Prophet-Chief  ordains 

That,  curst  of  Allah,  loathed  of  men, 
The  faithless  one  shall  die  in  chains. 

But  one  vile  Christian  slave  that  lay 
A  prisoner  near  that  prisoner  saith : 

"God  willing,  I  will  plant  some  day 
A  vine  where  liest  thou  in  death." 

'55 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Lo,  over  Abu  Midjan's  grave 

With  purpling  fruit  a  vine-tree  grows ; 
Where  rots  the  martyred  Christian  slave 

Allah,  and  only  Allah,  knows ! 


156 


ED 


ED  was  a  man  that  played  for  keeps,  'nd 
when  he  tuk  the  notion, 
You  cud  n't  stop  him  any  more  'n  a  dam  'ud 

stop  the  ocean ; 
For  when  he  tackled  to  a  thing  'nd  sot  his 

mind  plum  to  it, 
You  bet  yer  boots  he  done  that  thing  though 

it  broke  the  bank  to  do  it! 
So  all  us  boys  uz  knowed  him  best  allowed 

he  wuz  n't  jokin' 
When  on  a  Sunday  he  remarked  uz  how 

he  'd  gin  up  smokin'. 

Now  this  remark,  that  Ed  let  fall,  fell,  ez  I 

say,  on  Sunday  — 
Which  is  the  reason  we  wuz  shocked  to  see 

him  sail  in  Monday 

•57 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

A-puffin'  at  a  snipe  that  sizzled  like  a  Chi 
nese  cracker 

An'  smelt  fur  all  the  world  like  rags  instead 
uv  like  terbacker; 

Recoverin'  from  our  first  surprise,  us  fellows 
fell  to  pokin' 

A  heap  uv  fun  at  "folks  uz  said  how  they 
had  gin  up  smokin'." 

But  Ed  —  sez  he:  "I  found  my  work  cud 
not  be  done  without  it  — 

Jes'  try  the  scheme  yourselves,  my  friends, 
ef  any  uv  you  doubt  it! 

It 's  hard,  I  know,  upon  one's  health,  but 
there  's  a  certain  beauty 

In  makin'  sackerfices  to  the  stern  demands 
uv  duty! 

So,  wholly  in  a  sperrit  uv  denial  'nd  conces 
sion, 

I  mortify  the  flesh  'nd  smoke  for  the  sake  uv 
my  perfession!' 


.58 


JENNIE 


SOME  men  affect  a  liking 
For  the  prim  in  face  and  mind, 
And  some  prefer  the  striking 

And  the  loud  in  womankind; 
Wee  Madge  is  wooed  of  many, 

And  buxom  Kate,  as  well, 
And  Jennie  —  charming  Jennie  — 
Ah,  Jennie  does  n't  tell! 

What  eyes  so  bright  as  Daisy's, 

And  who  as  Maud  so  fair  ? 
Who  does  not  sing  the  praises 

Of  Lucy's  golden  hair  ? 
There  's  Sophie  —  she  is  witty, 

A  very  sprite  is  Nell, 
And  Susie's,  oh,  so  pretty  — 

But  Jennie  does  n't  tell! 

•59 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  now  for  my  confession: 

Of  all  the  virtues  rare, 
I  argue  that  discretion 

Doth  most  beseem  the  fair. 
And  though  I  hear  the  many 

Extol  each  other  belle, 
I  —  I  pronounce  for  Jennie, 

For  Jennie  does  n't  tell! 


160 


CONTENTMENT 


HAPPY  the  man  that,  when  his  day  is 
done, 

Lies  down  to  sleep  with  nothing  of  re 
gret— 

The  battle  he  has  fought  may  not  be  won  — 
The  fame  he  sought  be  just  as  fleeting  yet; 
Folding  at  last  his  hands  upon  his  breast, 

Happy  is  he,  if  hoary  and  forespent, 
He  sinks  into  the  last,  eternal  rest, 
Breathing  these  only  words:  "  I  am  con 
tent." 

But  happier  he,  that,  while  his  blood  is  warm, 

Sees  hopes  and  friendships  dead  about  him 

lie  — 
Bares  his  brave  breast  to  envy's  bitter  storm, 

Nor  shuns  the  poison  barbs  of  calumny; 
And  'mid  it  all,  stands  sturdy  and  elate, 

Girt  only  in  the  armor  God  hath  meant 
For  him  who  'neath  the  buffetings  of  fate 

Can  say  to  God  and  man :  "  I  am  content. " 
161 


"GUESS" 


is  a  certain  Yankee  phrase 
1     I  always  have  revered, 
Yet,  somehow,  in  these  modern  days, 

It 's  almost  disappeared; 
ft  was  the  usage  years  ago, 
But  nowadays  it 's  got 
To  be  regarded  coarse  and  low 
To  answer:  "I  guess  not! " 

The  height  of  fashion  called  the  pink 

Affects  a  British  craze  — 
Prefers  "  I  fancy  "  or  "  I  think  " 

To  that  time-honored  phrase; 
But  here  's  a  Yankee,  if  you  please, 

That  brands  the  fashion  rot, 
And  to  all  heresies  like  these 

He  answers,   "I  —  guess  not ! "  — 
162 


SONGS  AND   OTHER   VERSE 

When  Chaucer,  Wycliff,  and  the  rest 

Express  their  meaning  thus, 
I  guess,  if  not  the  very  best, 

It 's  good  enough  for  us! 
Why!  shall  the  idioms  of  our  speech 

Be  banished  and  forgot 
For  this  vain  trash  which  moderns  teach  ? 

Well,  no,  sir;  I  guess  not! 

There  's  meaning  in  that  homely  phrase 

No  other  words  express  — 
No  substitute  therefor  conveys 

Such  unobtrusive  stress. 
True  Anglo-Saxon  speech,  it  goes 

Directly  to  the  spot, 
And  he  who  hears  it  always  knows 

The  worth  of  "  I  —  guess — not!" 


163 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE 


GOOD  old  days  —  dear  old  days 
When  my  heart  beat  high  and  bold  — 
When  the  things  of  earth  seemed  full  of 

life, 

And  the  future  a  haze  of  gold ! 
Oh,  merry  was  I  that  winter  night, 

And  gleeful  our  little  one's  din, 
And  tender  the  grace  of  my  darling's  face 

As  we  watched  the  new  year  in. 
But  a  voice  —  a  spectre's,  that  mocked  at 

love  — 

Came  out  of  the  yonder  hall; 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"  't  was  the  solemn 

clock 

That  ruefully  croaked  to  all. 
Yet  what  knew  we  of  the  griefs  to  be 

In  the  year  we  longed  to  greet  ? 
Love  —  love  was  the  theme  of  the  sweet, 

sweet  dream 

I  fancied  might  never  fleet! 
164 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

But  the  spectre  stood  in  that  yonder  gloom, 
And  these  were  the  words  it  spake, 

"  Tick-tock,  tick-tock  "  —  and  they  seemed 

to  mock 
A  heart  about  to  break. 

'T  is  new-year's  eve,  and  again  I  watch 

In  the  old  familiar  place, 
And  I  'm  thinking  again  of  that  old  time 
when 

I  looked  on  a  dear  one's  face. 
Never  a  little  one  hugs  my  knee 

And  I  hear  no  gleeful  shout  — 
I  am  sitting  alone  by  the  old  hearthstone, 

Watching  the  old  year  out. 
But  I  welcome  the  voice  in  yonder  gloom 

That  solemnly  calls  to  me: 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"  —  for  so  the  clock 

Tells  of  a  life  to  be ; 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!" — 't  is  so  the  clock 

Tells  of  eternity. 


165 


OLD  SPANISH  SONG 


I'M  thinking  of  the  wooing 
That  won  my  maiden  heart 
When  he  —  he  came  pursuing 

A  love  unused  to  art. 
Into  the  drowsy  river 

The  moon  transported  flung 
Her  soul  that  seemed  to  quiver 

With  the  songs  my  lover  sung. 
And  the  stars  in  rapture  twinkled 

On  the  slumbrous  world  below - 
You  see  that,  old  and  wrinkled, 

I  'm  not  forgetful  —  no ! 

He  still  should  be  repeating 
The  vows  he  uttered  then  — 

Alas !  the  years,  though  fleeting, 
Are  truer  yet  than  men ! 
1 66 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

The  summer  moonlight  glistens 

In  the  favorite  trysting  spot 
Where  the  river  ever  listens 

For  a  song  it  heareth  not. 
And  I,  whose  head  is  sprinkled 

With  time's  benumbing  snow, 
I  languish,  old  and  wrinkled, 

But  not  forgetful  —  no ! 

What  though  he  elsewhere  turneth 

To  beauty  strangely  bold  ? 
Still  in  my  bosom  burneth 

The  tender  fire  of  old ; 
And  the  words  of  love  he  told  me 

And  the  songs  he  sung  me  then 
Come  crowding  to  uphold  me, 

And  I  live  my  youth  again ! 
For  when  love's  feet  have  tinkled 

On  the  pathway  women  go, 
Though  one  be  old  and  wrinkled, 

She  's  not  forgetful  —  no ! 


167 


THE  BROKEN  RING 


TO  the  willows  of  the  brookside 
The  mill  wheel  sings  to-day  — • 
Sings  and  weeps, 
As  the  brooklet  creeps 
Wondering  on  its  way; 
And  here  is  the  ring  she  gave  me 
With  love's  sweet  promise  then  — 
It  hath  burst  apart 
Like  the  trusting  heart 
That  may  never  be  soothed  again ! 

Oh,  I  would  be  a  minstrel 

To  wander  far  and  wide, 
Weaving  in  song  the  merciless  wrong 

Done  by  a  perjured  bride ! 
Or  I  would  be  a  soldier, 

To  seek  in  the  bloody  fray 
What  gifts  of  fate  can  compensate 

For  the  pangs  I  suffer  to-day! 
1 68 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Yet  may  this  aching  bosom, 
By  bitter  sorrow  crushed, 
Be  still  and  cold 
In  the  churchyard  mould 
Ere  thy  sweet  voice  be  hushed; 
So  sing,  sing  on  forever, 

0  wheel  of  the  brookside  mill, 
For  you  mind  me  again 

Of  the  old  time  when 

1  felt  love's  gracious  thrill. 


169 


IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT 
(HORACE'S  ODES,  HI,  i) 

I  HATE  the  common,  vulgar  herd! 
Away  they  scamper  when  I  "booh  "  'em ! 
But  pretty  girls  and  nice  young  men 
Observe  a  proper  silence  when 
I  chose  to  sing  my  lyrics  to  'em. 

The  kings  of  earth,  whose  fleeting  pow'r 
Excites  our  homage  and  our  wonder, 

Are  precious  small  beside  old  Jove, 

The  father  of  us  all,  who  drove 
The  giants  out  of  sight,  by  thunder! 

This  man  loves  farming,  that  man  law, 
While  this  one  follows  pathways  martial — 

What  moots  it  whither  mortals  turn  ? 

Grim  fate  from  her  mysterious  urn 
Doles  out  the  lots  with  hand  impartial. 
no 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Nor  sumptuous  feasts  nor  studied  sports 
Delight  the  heart  by  care  tormented ; 
The  mightiest  monarch  knoweth  not 
The  peace  that  to  the  lowly  cot 
Sleep  bringeth  to  the  swain  contented. 


On  him  untouched  of  discontent 

Care  sits  as  lightly  as  a  feather; 
He  does  n't  growl  about  the  crops, 
Or  worry  when  the  market  drops, 
Or  fret  about  the  changeful  weather. 


Not  so  with  him  who,  rich  in  fact, 

Still  seeks  his  fortune  to  redouble ; 
Though  dig  he  deep  or  build  he  high, 
Those  scourges  twain  shall  lurk  anigh  — 
Relentless  Care,  relentless  Trouble ! 


If  neither  palaces  nor  robes 

Nor  unguents  nor  expensive  toddy 
Insure  Contentment's  soothing  bliss, 
Why  should  I  build  an  edifice 

Where  Envy  comes  to  fret  a  body  ? 
171 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Nay,  I  'd  not  share  your  sumptuous  cheer, 

But  rather  sup  my  rustic  pottage, 
While  that  sweet  boon  the  gods  bestow  — 
The  peace  your  mansions  cannot  know  — 
Blesseth  my  lowly  Sabine  cottage. 


172 


THE   BALLAD  OF  THE  TAYLOR  PUP 


NOW  lithe  and  listen,  gentles  all, 
Now  lithe  ye  all  and  hark 
Unto  a  ballad  I  shall  sing 
About  Buena  Park. 

Of  all  the  wonders  happening  there 

The  strangest  hap  befell 
Upon  a  famous  Aprile  morn, 

As  I  you  now  shall  tell. 

It  is  about  the  Taylor  pup 

And  of  his  mistress  eke 
And  of  the  prankish  time  they  had 

That  I  am  fain  to  speak. 

FITTE  THE   FIRST 

The  pup  was  of  as  noble  mien 
As  e'er  you  gazed  upon ; 

"73 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

They  called  his  mother  Lady 
And  his  father  was  a  Don. 

And  both  his  mother  and  his  sire 
Were  of  the  race  Bernard  — 

The  family  famed  in  histories 
And  hymned  of  every  bard. 

His  form  was  of  exuberant  mold, 
Long,  slim,  and  loose  of  joints; 

There  never  yet  was  pointer-dog 
So  full  as  he  of  points. 

His  hair  was  like  to  yellow  fleece, 
His  eyes  were  black  and  kind, 

And  like  a  nodding,  gilded  plume 
His  tail  stuck  up  behind. 

His  bark  was  very,  very  fierce, 
And  fierce  his  appetite, 

Yet  was  it  only  things  to  eat 
That  he  was  prone  to  bite. 

But  in  that  one  particular 
He  was  so  passing  true 

That  never  did  he  quit  a  meal 
Until  he  had  got  through. 

'74 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Potatoes,  biscuits,  mush  or  hash, 
Joint,  chop,  or  chicken  limb  — 

So  long  as  it  was  edible, 
'T  was  all  the  same  to  him ! 

And  frequently  when  Hunger's  pangs 

Assailed  that  callow  pup, 
He  masticated  boots  and  gloves 

Or  chewed  a  door-mat  up. 

So  was  he  much  beholden  of 
The  folk  that  him  did  keep; 

They  loved  him  when  he  was  awake 
And  better  still  asleep. 

FITTE   THE  SECOND 

Now  once  his  master,  lingering  o'er 

His  breakfast  coffee-cup, 
Observed  unto  his  doting  spouse: 

"  You  ought  to  wash  the  pup!  " 

"  That  shall  I  do  this  very  day, 
His  doting  spouse  replied; 

"You  will  not  know  the  pretty  thing 
When  he  is  washed  and  dried. 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

"  But  tell  me,  dear,  before  you  go 

Unto  your  daily  work, 
Shall  I  use  Ivory  soap  on  him, 

Or  Colgate,  Pears'  or  Kirk?" 

"  Odzooks,  it  matters  not  a  whit  — 

They  all  are  good  to  use! 
Take  Pearline,  if  it  pleases  you  — 

Sapolio,  if  you  choose! 

"Take  any  soap,  but  take  the  pup 

And  also  water  take, 
And  mix  the  three  discreetly  up 

Till  they  a  lather  make. 

"Then  mixing  these  constituent  parts, 

Let  Nature  take  her  way," 
With  which  advice  that  sapient  sir 

Had  nothing  more  to  say. 

Then  fared  he  to  his  daily  toil 

All  in  the  Board  of  Trade, 
While  Mistress  Taylor  for  that  bath 

Due  preparation  made. 
176 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 
FITTE    THE    THIRD 

She  whistled  gayly  to  the  pup 
And  called  him  by  his  name, 

And  presently  the  guileless  thing 
All  unsuspecting  came. 

But  when  she  shut  the  bath-room  door, 
And  caught  him  as  catch-can, 

And  hove  him  in  that  odious  tub, 
His  sorrows  then  began. 

How  did  that  callow,  yallow  thing 

Regret  that  Aprile  morn  — 
Alas!  how  bitterly  he  rued 

The  day  that  he  was  born! 

Twice  and  again,  but  all  in  vain 

He  lifted  up  his  wail ; 
His  voice  was  all  the  pup  could  lift, 

For  thereby  hangs  this  tale. 

T  was  by  that  tail  she  held  him  down, 

And  presently  she  spread 
The  creamy  lather  on  his  back, 

His  stomach,  and  his  head. 

'77 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

His  ears  hung  down  in  sorry  wise, 
His  eyes  were,  oh!  so  sad  — 

He  looked  as  though  he  just  had  lost 
The  only  friend  he  had. 

And  higher  yet  the  water  rose, 

The  lather  still  increased, 
And  sadder  still  the  countenance 

Of  that  poor  martyred  beast ! 

Yet  all  the  time  his  mistress  spoke 

Such  artful  words  of  cheer 
As  "Oh,  how  nice!"  and  "Oh,  how 

clean!" 
And  "  There's  a  patient  dear! " 

At  last  the  trial  had  an  end, 

At  last  the  pup  was  free ; 
She  threw  aside  the  bath-room  door — 

"Now  get  you  gone! "  quoth  she. 

FITTE  THE   FOURTH 

Then  from  that  tub  and  from  that  room 
He  gat  with  vast  ado ; 

.78 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

At  every  hop  he  gave  a  shake, 
And  —  how  the  water  flew! 


He  paddled  down  the  winding  stairs 

And  to  the  parlor  hied, 
Dispensing  pools  of  foamy  suds 

And  slop  on  every  side. 


Upon  the  carpet  then  he  rolled 
And  brushed  against  the  wall, 

And,  horror!  whisked  his  lathery  sides 
On  overcoat  and  shawl. 


Attracted  by  the  dreadful  din, 
His  mistress  came  below  — 

Who,  who  can  speak  her  wonderment — 
Who,  who  can  paint  her  woe! 

Great  smears  of  soap  were  here  and 
there  — 

Her  startled  vision  met 
With  blobs  of  lather  everywhere, 

And  everything  was  wet! 

•79 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Then  Mrs.  Taylor  gave  a  shriek 

Like  one  about  to  die: 
"  Get  out  —  get  out,  and  don't  you  dare 

Come  in  till  you  are  dry! " 

With  that  she  opened  wide  the  door 
And  waved  the  critter  through ; 

Out  in  the  circumambient  air 
With  grateful  yelps  he  flew. 

FITTE  THE   FIFTH 

He  whisked  into  the  dusty  street 

And  to  the  Waller  lot, 
Where  bonnie  Annie  Evans  played 

With  charming  Sissy  Knott. 

And  with  those  pretty  little  dears 

He  mixed  himself  all  up  — 
Oh,  fie  upon  such  boisterous  play  — 

Fie,  fie,  you  naughty  pup! 

Woe,  woe  on  Annie's  India  mull, 

And  Sissy's  blue  percale! 
One  got  that  pup's  belathered  flanks, 

And  one  his  soapy  tail! 

1 80 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Forth  to  the  rescue  of  those  n^aids 
Rushed  gallant  Willie  Clow; 

His  panties  they  were  white  and  clean — 
Where  are  those  panties  now  ? 

Where  is  the  nicely  laundered  shirt 

That  Kendall  Evans  wore, 
And  Robbie  James'  tricot  coat 

All  buttoned  up  before  ? 

The  leaven,  which,  as  we  are  told, 
Leavens  a  monstrous  lump, 

Hath  far  less  reaching  qualities 
Than  a  wet  pup  on  the  jump. 

This  way  and  that  he  swung  and  swayed, 

He  gambolled  far  and  near, 
And  everywhere  he  thrust  himself 

He  left  a  soapy  smear. 

FITTE  THE  SIXTH 

That  noon  a  dozen  little  dears 
Were  spanked  and  put  to  bed 

With  naught  to  stay  their  appetites 
But  cheerless  crusts  of  bread. 
181 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

That  noon  a  dozen  hired  girls 
Washed  out  each  gown  and  shirt 

Which  that  exuberant  Taylor  pup 
Had  frescoed  o'er  with  dirt. 


That  wjiole  day  long  the  Aprile  sun 
Smiled  sweetly  from  above 

On  clotheslines  flaunting  to  the  breeze 
The  emblems  mothers  love. 

That  whole  day  long  the  Taylor  pup 

This  way  and  that  did  hie 
Upon  his  mad,  erratic  course, 

Intent  on  getting  dry. 

That  night  when  Mr.  Taylor  came 

His  vesper  meal  to  eat, 
He  uttered  things  my  pious  pen 

Would  liefer  not  repeat. 


Yet  still  that  noble  Taylor  pup 
Survives  to  romp  and  bark 

And  stumble  over  folks  and  things 
In  fair  Buena  Park. 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Good  sooth,  I  wot  he  should  be  called 

Buena's  favorite  son 
Who  's  sired  of  such  a  noble  sire 

And  dammed  by  every  one! 


•83 


AFTER    READING    TROLLOPE'S    HIS 
TORY  OF  FLORENCE 


MY  books  are  on  their  shelves  again 
And  clouds  lie  low  with  mist  and  rain. 
Afar  the  Arno  murmurs  low 
The  tale  of  fields  of  melting  snow. 
List  to  the  bells  of  times  agone 
The  while  I  wait  me  for  the  dawn. 

Beneath  great  Giotto's  Campanile 

The  gray  ghosts  throng;  their  whispers  steal 

From  poets'  bosoms  long  since  dust; 

They  ask  me  now  to  go.     I  trust 

Their  fleeter  footsteps  where  again 

They  come  at  night  and  live  as  men. 

The  rain  falls  on  Ghiberti's  gates; 
The  big  drops  hang  on  purple  dates; 
184 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  yet  beneath  the  ilex-shades  — 
Dear  trysting-place  for  boys  and  maids  — 
There  comes  a  form  from  days  of  old, 
With  Beatrice's  hair  of  gold. 

The  breath  of  lands  or  lilied  streams 

Floats  through  the  fabric  of  my  dreams; 

And  yonder  from  the  hills  of  song, 

Where  psalmists  brood  and  prophets  throng, 

The  lone,  majestic  Dante  leads 

His  love  across  the  blooming  meads. 

Along  the  almond  walks  I  tread 
And  greet  the  figures  of  the  dead. 
Mirandula  walks  here  with  him 
Who  lived  with  gods  and  seraphim; 
Yet  where  Colonna's  fair  feet  go 
There  passes  Michael  Angelo. 

In  Rome  or  Florence,  still  with  her 
Stands  lone  and  grand  her  worshipper. 
In  Leonardo's  brain  there  move 
Christ  and  the  children  of  His  love ; 
And  Raphael  is  touching  now, 
For  the  last  time,  an  angel's  brow. 
'85 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Angelico  is  praying  yet 
Where  lives  no  pang  of  man's  regret, 
And,  mixing  tears  and  prayers  within 
His  palette's  wealth,  absolved  from  sin, 
He  dips  his  brush  in  hues  divine; 
San  Marco's  angel  faces  shine. 

Within  Lorenzo's  garden  green, 
Where  olives  hide  their  boughs  between, 
The  lovers,  as  they  read  betimes 
Their  love  within  Petrarca's  lines, 
Stand  near  the  marbles  found  at  Rome, 
Lost  shades  that  search  in  vain  for  home. 

They  pace  the  paths  along  the  stream, 

Dark  Vallombrosa  in  their  dream. 

They  sing,  amidst  the  rain-drenched  pines, 

Of  Tuscan  gold  that  ruddier  shines 

Behind  a  saint's  auroral  face 

That  shows  e'en  yet  the  master's  trace. 

But  lo,  within  the  walls  of  gray, 
E're  yet  there  falls  a  glint  of  day, 
And  far  without,  from  hill  to  vale, 
Where  honey-hearted  nightingale 
Or  meads  of  pale  anemones 
Make  sweet  the  coming  morning  breeze  — 
1 86 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  hear  a  voice,  of  prophet  tone, 
A  voice  of  doom,  like  his  alone 
That  once  in  Gadara  was  heard  ; 
The  old  walls  trembled  —  lo,  the  bird 
Has  ceased  to  sing,  and  yonder  waits 
Lorenzo  at  his  palace  gates. 

Some  Romola  in  passing  by 

Turns  toward  the  ruler,  and  his  sigh 

Wanders  amidst  the  myrtle  bowers 

Or  o'er  the  city's  mantled  towers, 

For  she  is  Florence!     "  Wilt  thou  hear 

San  Marco's  prophet ?    Doom  is  near." 

"  Her  liberties,"  he  cries,  "  restore! 
This  much  for  Florence  —  yea,  and  more 
To  men  and  God! "    The  days  are  gone; 
And  in  an  hour  of  perfect  dawn 
I  stand  beneath  the  cypress  trees 
That  shiver  still  with  words  like  these. 


187 


A  LULLABY 


'"T'^HE  stars  are  twinkling  in  the  skies, 
1     The  earth  is  lost  in  slumbers  deep; 
So  hush,  my  sweet,  and  close  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  lull  thy  soul  to  sleep. 
Compose  thy  dimpled  hands  to  rest, 

And  like  a  little  birdling  lie 
Secure  within  thy  cozy  nest 
Upon  my  loving  mother  breast, 

And  slumber  to  my  lullaby, 

So  hushaby  —  O  hushaby. 

The  moon  is  singing  to  a  star 
The  little  song  I  sing  to  you ; 

The  father  sun  has  strayed  afar, 
As  baby's  sire  is  straying  too. 

And  so  the  loving  mother  moon 
Sings  to  the  little  star  on  high ; 
1 88 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  as  she  sings,  her  gentle  tune 
Is  borne  to  me,  and  thus  I  croon 

For  thee,  my  sweet,  that  lullaby 

Of  hushaby  —  O  hushaby. 

There  is  a  little  one  asleep 

That  does  not  hear  his  mother's  song; 
But  angel  watchers  —  as  I  weep  — 

Surround  his  grave  the  night-tide  long. 
And  as  I  sing,  my  sweet,  to  you, 

Oh,  would  the  lullaby  I  sing  — 
The  same  sweet  lullaby  he  knew 
While  slumb'ring  on  this  bosom  too  — 

Were  borne  to  him  on  angel's  wing ' 

So  hushaby  —  O  hushaby. 


189 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD" 


I EST  as  atween  the  awk'ard  lines  a  hand 
J    we  love  has  penn'd 

Appears  a  meanin'  hid  from  other  eyes, 
So,  in  your  simple,  homespun  art,  old  honest 

Yankee  friend, 

A  power  o'  tearful,  sweet  seggestion  lies. 
We  see  it  all  —  the  pictur'  that  our  mem'ries 

hold  so  dear  — 

The  homestead  in  New  England  far  away, 
An'  the  vision  is  so  nat'ral-like  we  almost 

seem  to  hear 

The  voices  that  were  heshed  but  yester 
day. 

Ah,  who  'd  ha'  thought  the  music  of  that 

distant  childhood  time 
Would  sleep  through  all  the  changeful, 

bitter  years 
To  waken  into  melodies  like  Chris'mas  bells 

a-chime 

An'  to  claim  the  ready  tribute  of  our  tears ! 
190 


Why,  the  robins  in  the  maples  an'  the  black 
birds  round  the  pond, 
The  crickets  an'  the  locusts  in  the  leaves, 
The  brook  that  chased  the  trout  adown  the 

hillside  just  beyond, 
An'  the  swallers  in  their  nests  beneath  the 

eaves  — 
They  all  come  troopin'  back  with  you,  dear 

Uncle  Josh,  to-day, 

An'  they  seem  to  sing  with  all  the  joy 
ous  zest 
Of  the  days  when  we  were  Yankee  boys 

an'  Yankee  girls  at  play, 
With  nary  thought  of  "  livin'  way  out 
West"! 

God  bless  ye,  Denman  Thomps'n,  for  the 

good  y'  do  our  hearts 
With  this  music  an'  these   memories  o' 

youth  — 
God  bless  ye  for  the  faculty  that  tops  all 

human  arts, 
The  good  ol'  Yankee  faculty  of  Truth ! 


191 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN 


SING,  Christmas  bells! 
Say  to  the  earth  this  is  the  morn 
Whereon  our  Saviour-King  is  born ; 

Sing  to  all  men  —  the  bond,  the  free, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low  — 

The  little  child  that  sports  in  glee  — 
The  aged  folk  that  tottering  go  — 
Proclaim  the  morn 
That  Christ  is  born, 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me ! 

Sing,  angel  host! 

Sing  of  the  star  that  God  has  placed 
Above  the  manger  in  the  east; 

Sing  of  the  glories  of  the  night, 
The  virgin's  sweet  humility, 
The  Babe  with  kingly  robes  bedight  - 
192 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Sing  to  all  men  where'er  they  be 
This  Christmas  morn, 
For  Christ  is  born, 
That  saveth  them  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  sons  of  earth ! 
O  ransomed  seed  of  Adam,  sing! 
God  liveth,  and  we  have  a  King! 

The  curse  is  gone,  the  bond  are  free  — 
By  Bethlehem's  star  that  brightly  beamed, 

By  all  the  heavenly  signs  that  be, 

We  know  that  Israel  is  redeemed  — 

That  on  this  morn 

The  Christ  is  born 

That  saveth  you  and  saveth  me! 

Sing,  O  my  heart ! 
Sing  thou  in  rapture  this  dear  morn 
Whereon  the  blessed  Prince  is  born! 
And  as  thy  songs  shall  be  of  love, 
So  let  my  deeds  be  charity  — 

By  the  dear  Lord  that  reigns  above, 
By  Him  that  died  upon  the  tree, 
By  this  fair  morn 
Whereon  is  born 

The  Christ  that  saveth  all  and  me! 
195 


A  PARAPHRASE  OF  HEINE 
(LYRIC  INTERMEZZO) 

THERE  fell  a  star  from  realms  above  — 
A  glittering,  glorious  star  to  see! 
Methought  it  was  the  star  of  love, 
So  sweetly  it  illumined  me. 

And  from  the  apple  branches  fell 
Blossoms  and  leaves  that  time  in  June; 

The  wanton  breezes  wooed  them  well 
With  soft  caress  and  amorous  tune. 

The  white  swan  proudly  sailed  along 
And  vied  her  beauty  with  her  note  — 

The  river,  jealous  of  her  song, 
Threw  up  its  arms  to  clasp  her  throat. 

But  now  —  oh,  now  the  dream  is  past  — 
The  blossoms  and  the  leaves  are  dead, 

The  swan's  sweet  song  is  hushed  at  last, 
And  not  a  star  burns  overhead. 
194 


THE  CONVALESCENT  GRIPSTER 


THE  gods  let  slip  that  fiendish  grip 
Upon  me  last  week  Sunday  — 
No  fiercer  storm  than  racked  my  form 

E'er  swept  the  Bay  of  Fundy ; 
But  now,  good-by 
To  drugs,  say  I  — 

Good-by  to  gnawing  sorrow ; 
I  am  up  to-day, 
And,  whoop,  hooray! 
I  'm  going  out  to-morrow  1 

What  aches  and  pain  in  bones  and  brain 

I  had  I  need  not  mention; 
It  seemed  to  me  such  pangs  must  be 

Old  Satan's  own  invention; 
Albeit  I 

Was  sure  I  'd  die, 
The  doctor  reassured  me  — 

'95 


__ 


SONGS   AND   OTHER  VERSE 

And,  true  enough, 
With  his  vile  stuff, 

He  ultimately  cured  me. 

As  there  I  lay  in  bed  all  day, 

How  fair  outside  looked  to  me* 
A  smile  so  mild  old  Nature  smiled 

It  seemed  to  warm  clean  through  me. 
In  chastened  mood 
The  scene  I  viewed, 

Inventing,  sadly  solus, 
Fantastic  rhymes 
Between  the  times 

I  had  to  take  a  bolus. 

Of  quinine  slugs  and  other  drugs 

I  guess  I  took  a  million  - 
Such  drugs  as  serve  to  set  each  nerve 

To  dancing  a  cotillon; 
The  doctors  say 
The  only  way 

To  rout  the  grip  instanter 
Is  to  pour  in 
All  kinds  of  sin  — 
Similibus  curantur! 
196 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

T  was  hard ;  and  yet  I  '11  soon  forget 

Those  ills  and  cures  distressing; 
One's  future  lies  'neath  gorgeous  skies 

When  one  is  convalescing! 
So  now,  good-by 
To  drugs  say  I  — 

Good-by,  thou  phantom  Sorrow! 
I  am  up  to-day, 
And,  whoop,  hooray! 

I  'm  going  out  to-morrow. 


'97 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD 


MY  baby  slept  —  how  calm  his  rest, 
As  o'er  his  handsome  face  a  smile 
Like  that  of  angel  flitted,  while 
He  lay  so  still  upon  my  breast! 

My  baby  slept  —  his  baby  head 
Lay  all  unkiss'd  'neath  pall  and  shroud: 
I  did  not  weep  or  cry  aloud  — 

I  only  wished  I,  too,  were  dead! 

My  baby  sleeps  —  a  tiny  mound, 
All  covered  by  the  little  flowers, 
Woos  me  in  all  my  waking  hours, 

Down  in  the  quiet  burying-ground. 

And  when  I  sleep  I  seem  to  be 
With  baby  in  another  land  — 
I  take  his  little  baby  hand  — 

He  smiles  and  sings  sweet  songs  to  me. 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

Sleep  on,  O  baby,  while  I  keep 
My  vigils  till  this  day  be  passed! 
Then  shall  I,  too,  lie  down  at  last, 

And  with  my  baby  darling  sleep. 


199 


THE  TWO  COFFINS 


IN  yonder  old  cathedral 
Two  lovely  coffins  lie ; 
In  one,  the  head  of  the  state  lies  dead, 
And  a  singer  sleeps  hard  by. 

Once  had  that  King  great  power 
And  proudly  ruled  the  land  — 

His  crown  e'en  now  is  on  his  brow 
And  his  sword  is  in  his  hand. 

How  sweetly  sleeps  the  singer 

With  calmly  folded  eyes, 
And  on  the  breast  of  the  bard  at  rest 

The  harp  that  he  sounded  lies, 

The  castle  walls  are  falling 

And  war  distracts  the  land, 
But  the  sword  leaps  not  from  that  mil 
dewed  spot 

There  in  that  dead  king's  hand. 
200 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

But  with  every  grace  of  nature 
There  seems  to  float  along  — 

To  cheer  again  the  hearts  of  men 
The  singer's  deathless  song. 


201 


CLARE  MARKET 


IN  the  market  of  Clare,  so  cheery  the  glare 
Of  the  shops  and  the  booths  of  the  trades 
people  there ; 

That  I  take  a  delight  on  a  Saturday  night 
In  walking  that  way  and  in  viewing  the 

sight. 
For  it  's  here  that  one  sees  all  the  objects 

that  please  — 
New  patterns  in  silk  and  old  patterns  in 

cheese, 
For  the  girls  pretty  toys,  rude  alarums  for 

boys, 

And  baubles  galore  while  discretion  enjoys — 
But  here  I  forbear,  for  I  really  despair 
Of  naming  the  wealth  of  the  market  of  Clare. 

A  rich  man  comes  down  from  the  elegant 

town 

And  looks  at  it  all  with  an  ominous  frown; 

He  seems  to  despise  the  grandiloquent  cries 

aoa 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Of  the  vender  proclaiming  his  puddings  and 
pies; 

And  sniffing  he  goes  through  the  lanes  that 
disclose 

Much  cause  for  disgust  to  his  sensitive  nose; 

And  free  of  the  crowd,  he  admits  he  is  proud 

That  elsewhere  in  London  this  thing's  not 
allowed ; 

He  has  seen  nothing  there  but  filth  every 
where, 

And  he  's  glad  to  get  out  of  the  market  of 
Clare. 

But  the  child  that  has  come  from  the  gloom 
of  the  slum 

Is  charmed  by  the  magic  of  dazzle  and  hum ; 

He  feasts  his  big  eyes  on  the  cakes  and  the 
pies, 

And  they  seem  to  grow  green  and  protrude 
with  surprise 

At  the  goodies  they  vend  and  the  toys  with 
out  end  — 

And  it 's  oh !  if  he  had  but  a  penny  to  spend ! 

But  alas,  he  must  gaze  in  a  hopeless  amaze 

At  treasures  that  glitter  and  torches  that 
blaze  — 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

What  sense  of  despair  in  this  world  can 

compare 
With  that  of  the  waif  in  the  market  of  Clare  ? 

So,  on  Saturday  night,  when  my  custom  in 
vites 

A  stroll  in  old  London  for  curious  sights, 
I  am  likely  to  stray  by  a  devious  way 
Where  goodies  are  spread  in  a  motley  array, 
The  things  which  some  eyes  would  appear 

to  despise 

Impress  me  as  pathos  in  homely  disguise, 
And  my  battered  waif-friend  shall  have  pen 
nies  to  spend, 
So  long  as  I  've  got  'em  (or  chums  that  will 

lend) ; 
And  the  urchin  shall  share  in  my  joy  and 

declare 

That  there  's  beauty  and  good  in  the  market 
of  Clare. 


204 


A  DREAM  OF  SPRINGTIME 


I'M  weary  of  this  weather  and  I  hanker 
for  the  ways 
Which  people  read  of  in  the  psalms  and 

preachers  paraphrase  — 
The   grassy   fields,   the   leafy    woods,   the 

banks  where  I  can  lie 
And  listen  to  the  music  of  the  brook  that 

flutters  by, 

Or,  by  the  pond  out  yonder,  hear  the  red 
wing  blackbird's  call 
Where  he  makes  believe  he  has  a  nest,  but 

has  n't  one  at  all; 
And  by  my  side   should  be  a   friend  —  a 

trusty,  genial  friend, 
With   plenteous   store  of  tales  galore  and 

natural  leaf  to  lend ; 
Oh,  how  I  pine  and  hanker  for  the  gracious 

boon  of  spring  — 
For  then  I  'm  going  a-fishing  with  John 

Lyle  King! 

205 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

How  like  to  pigmies  will  appear  creation,  as 

we  float 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  tide  in  a  three-by- 

thirteen  boat  — 
Forgotten  all  vexations  and  all  vanities  shall 

be, 
As  we  cast  our  cares  to  windward  and  our 

anchor  to  the  lee; 
Anon  the  minnow-bucket  will  emit  batrach- 

ian  sobs, 
And  the  devil's  darning-needles  shall  come 

wooing  of  our  bobs; 
The  sun  shall  kiss  our  noses  and  the  breezes 

toss  our  hair 
(This  latter  metaphoric  —  we  've  no  fimbriae 

to  spare!); 
And  I  —  transported  by  the  bliss  —  shan't 

do  a  plaguey  thing 
But  cut  the  bait  and  string  the  fish  for  John 

Lyle  King! 


Or,  if  I  angle,  it  will  be  for  bullheads  and 

the  like, 
While  he  shall  fish  for  gamey  bass,  for 

pickerel,  and  for  pike; 
206 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

I  really  do  not  care  a  rap  for  all  the  fish  that 

swim  — 
But  it  's  worth  the  wealth  of  Indies  just  to 

be  along  with  him 
In  grassy  fields,  in  leafy  woods,  beside  the 

water-brooks, 
And  hear  him  tell  of  things  he  's  seen  or 

read  of  in  his  books  — 
To  hear  the  sweet  philosophy  that  trickles 

in  and  out 
The  while  he  is  discoursing  of  the  things 

we  talk  about ; 

A  fountain-head  refreshing  —  a  clear,  peren 
nial  spring 
Is  the  genial  conversation  of  John  Lyle  King! 

Should  varying  winds  or  shifting  tides  re 
dound  to  our  despite  — 

In  other  words,  should  we  return  all  boot 
less  home  at  night, 

I  'd  back  him  up  in  anything  he  had  a  mind 
to  say 

Of  mighty  bass  he  'd  left  behind  or  lost  upon 
the  way ; 

I  'd  nod  assent  to  every  yarn  involving  pis 
cine  game  — 

207 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

I  'd  cross  my  heart  and  make  my  affidavit 

to  the  same; 
For  what  is  friendship  but  a  scheme  to  help 

a  fellow  out  — 
And  what  a  paltry  fish  or  two  to  make  such 

bones  about! 
Nay,  Sentiment  a  mantle  of  sweet  charity 

would  fling 
O'er  perjuries  committed  for  John  Lyle  King. 


At  night,  when  as  the  camp-fire  cast  a  ruddy, 

genial  flame, 
He  'd  bring  his  tuneful  fiddle  out  and  play 

upon  the  same; 
No  diabolic  engine  this  —  no  instrument  of 

sin  — 

No  relative  at  all  to  that  lewd  toy,  the  violin ! 
But  a  godly  hoosier  fiddle  —  a  quaint  archaic 

thing 
Full  of  all  the  proper  melodies  our  grandmas 

used  to  sing; 
With  "  Bonnie  Doon,"  and  "Nellie  Gray," 

and  "  Sitting  on  the  Stile," 
"The  Heart  Bowed  Down,"  the  "White 

Cockade, "  and ' '  Charming  Annie  Lisle  " 
208 


SONGS  AND   OTHER  VERSE 

Our  hearts  would  echo  and  the  sombre 

empyrean  ring 
Beneath  the  wizard   sorcery  of  John  Lyle 

King. 

The  subsequent  proceedings  should  interest 

me  no  more  — 
Wrapped   in   a  woolen   blanket   should   I 

calmly  dream  and  snore; 
The  finny  game  that  swims  by  day  is  my 

supreme  delight  — 

And  not  the  scaly  game  that  flies  in  dark 
ness  of  the  night! 
Let  those  who  are  so  minded  pursue  this 

latter  game 
But  not  repine  if  they  should  lose  a  boodle 

in  the  same; 
For  an  example  to  you  all  one  paragon  should 

serve  — 
He  towers  a  very  monument  to  valor  and  to 

nerve; 
No  bob-tail  flush,  no  nine-spot  high,  no 

measly  pair  can  wring 
A  groan  of  desperation  from  John  Lyle  King! 

A  truce  to  badinage  —  I  hope  far  distant  is 
the  day 

209 


When    from   these   scenes   terrestrial    our 

friend  shall  pass  away! 
We  like  to  hear  his  cheery  voice  uplifted  in 

the  land, 
To  see  his  calm,  benignant  face,  to  grasp  his 

honest  hand; 
We  like  him  for  his  learning,  his  sincerity, 

his  truth, 
His  gallantry  to  woman  and  his  kindliness 

to  youth, 
For  the  lenience  of  his  nature,  for  the  vigor 

of  his  mind, 
For  the  fulness  of  that  charity  he  bears  to 

all  mankind  — 
That 's  why  we  folks  who  know  him  best 

so  reverently  cling 
(And  that  is  why  I  pen  these  lines)  to  John 

Lyle  King. 


And  now  adieu,  a  fond  adieu  to  thee,  O  muse 

of  rhyme  — 
I  do  remand  thee  to  the  shades  until  that 

happier  time 
When  fields  are  green,  and  posies  gay  are 

budding  everywhere, 

210 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

And  there  's  a  smell  of  clover  bloom  upon 

the  vernal  air; 
When  by  the  pond  out  yonder  the  redwing 

blackbird  calls, 
And  distant  hills  are  wed  to  Spring  in  veils 

of  water-falls; 

When  from  his  aqueous  element  the  fam 
ished  pickerel  springs 
Two  hundred  feet  into  the  air  for  butterflies 

and  things  — 
Then  come  again,  O  gracious  muse,  and 

teach  me  how  to  sing 
The  glory  of  a  fishing  cruise  with  John  Lyle 

King! 


UHLAND'S  WHITE  STAG. 


INTO  the  woods  three  huntsmen  came, 
Seeking  the  white  stag  for  their  game. 

They  laid  them  under  a  green  fir-tree 
And  slept,  and  dreamed  strange  things  to 
see. 

(FIRST  HUNTSMAN) 

I  dreamt  I  was  beating  the  leafy  brush, 
When  out  popped  the  noble  stag  —  hush, 
hush! 

(SECOND  HUNTSMAN) 

As  ahead  of  the  clamorous  pack  he  sprang, 
I  pelted  him  hard  in  the  hide  —  piff,  bang! 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 
(THIRD  HUNTSMAN) 

And  as  that  stag  lay  dead  I  blew 
On  my  horn  a  lusty  tir-ril-la-loo! 

So  speak  the  three  as  there  they  lay 
When  lo !  the  white  stag  sped  that  way, 

Frisked  his  heels  at  those  huntsmen  three, 
Then  leagues  o'er  hill  and  dale  was  he  — 
Hush,  hush!  Piff,  bang!  Tir-ril-la-loo  1 


213 


HOW  SALTY  WIN  OUT 


USED  to  think  that  luck  wuz  luck  and 
nuthin'  else  but  luck  — 
It  made  no  difference  how  or  when  or  where 

or  why  it  struck ; 
But  sev'ral  years  ago  I  changt  my  mind,  an' 

now  proclaim 
That  luck  's  a  kind  uv  science  —  same  as  any 

other  game; 
It  happened  out  in  Denver  in  the  spring  uv 

'80  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten. 

Salty  wuz  a  printer  in  the  good  ol'  Tribune 

days, 
An',  natural-like,  he  fell  into  the  good  ol' 

Tribune  ways; 

214 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

So,  every  Sunday  evenin'  he  would  sit  into 

the  game 
Which  in  this  crowd  uv  thoroughbreds  I 

think  I  need  not  name; 
An'  there  he  'd  sit  until  he  rose,  an',  when 

he  rose,  he  wore 
Invariably  less  wealth  about  his  person  than 

before. 

But  once  there  came  a  powerful  change ;  one 

sollum  Sunday  night 
Occurred  the  tidal  wave  that  put  ol'  Salty 

out  o'  sight. 
He  win  on  deuce  an'  ace  an'  Jack  —  he  win 

on  king  an'  queen  — 
Clif  Bell  allowed  the  like  uv  how  he  win  wuz 

never  seen. 
An'  how  he  done  it  wuz  revealed  to  all  us 

fellers  when 
He  said  he  teched  a  humpback  to  win  out 

ten. 

Thej-e  must  be  somethin'  in  it,  for  he  never 

win  afore, 
An'  when   he  told  the  crowd  about  the 

humpback,  how  they  swore ! 
315 


SONGS  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

For  every  sport  allows  it  is  a  losin'  game  to 

luck 
Agin  the  science  uv  a  man  who  's  teched  a 

hump  fr  luck; 
And  there  is  no  denyin'  luck  wuz  nowhere 

in  it  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten. 

I  've  had  queer  dreams  an'  seen  queer  things, 
an'  allus  tried  to  do 

The  thing  that  luck  apparently  intended  fr 
me  to; 

Cats,  funerils,  cripples,  beggers  have  I  treat-, 
ed  with  regard, 

An'  charity  subscriptions  have  hit  me  pow 
erful  hard ; 

But  what 's  the  use  uv  talkin'  ?  I  say,  an' 
say  again : 

You  've  got  to  tech  a  humpback  to  win  out 
ten! 

So,  though  I  used  to  think  that  luck  /jvuz 
lucky,  I  '11  allow 

That  luck,  for  luck,  agin  a  hump  aint  no 
where  in  it  now! 
316 


SONGS  AND   OTHER   VERSE 

An'  though  I  can't  explain  the  whys  an' 

wherefores,  I  maintain 
There  must  be  somethin'  in  it  when  the  tip 's 

so  straight  an'  plain ; 
For  I  wuz  there  an'  seen  it,  an'  got  full  with 

Salty  when 
Salty  teched  a  humpback  an'  win  out  ten! 


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